A War of Men
by ItsHeroTime
Summary: The story of the Dragon Age is of pride, lust, violence, and of the men and women that make a difference in dark times. Ferelden will be soon be faced with a horde of unstoppable monsters, civil war, and strife on every front. Can it be saved?
1. Prologue

(For those of you interested in precisely what this story is, I am basically rewriting Dragon Age if George R.R. Martin handled it, in much the same style as A Song Of Ice And Fire. That means I will be using multiple point of view characters, be exploring several different locations at once, and try to explore Dragon Age from a different perspective. But, first off, we do the prologue that sets up the basic evil threat of the series with an unimportant character, destined to be killed off. Enjoy!)

Prologue

Pick awoke to the stench of shit and blood, and knew his time was at an end.

The shit came from the heaps of dung in the corner of the tent, laid by Pick himself and countless other prisoners. They festered there, old and horrid, flies swarming all around the black and brown and gray pile. The blood came from the gash on Pick's face, blood that had seeped all over his forehead and cheeks, crusted and stinking in its own right. Whenever Pick opened his mouth to take a breath, he could taste the blood upon his tongue, and always started to spit or cough. Anything to get the wretched taste out. Of course, when the nights were long, Pick had no food or drink.

He only had the shit and the blood.

_Might as well live like the savages. _Pick had been stuck in this tent for days, and the Chasind seemed content to let him rot. They fed him once a day, threw swamp water on his head when he asked for a drink, and otherwise left him there, left him all alone, with only fleas, flies, and shit for company. He had tried to get up, several times, but his injury had left him weak and feverish, and every movement off the ground made his head pound and his heart stop.

He would have given his right arm for a bowl of soup. He would have given his left arm for a pail of saltwater. He would have given away his feet for an actual mattress instead of the lice infested blankets he had now, blankets that were now stained and stank with piss. He would have cut off his cock for a nice breath of fresh air, for a flash of sunlight, for a warm noon day, but no one seemed to be asking for it.

The only thing that the Chasind had to offer him was this tent, a nasty chill, and mist. Mist, mist, mist, until you've gotten sick of the color gray. The mist crept into the tent at night and wrapped around him like an ice cold lover. The mist flooded into the tent during the day and suffocated him, filling his eyes and ears with fog, pressing down on his ribs and lungs until it hurt to breathe. He wept during those moments, wept painful and pitiful tears, with only the mist and the bugs and the shit for company.

This particular morning seemed no different, as Pick awoke with a start to discover, oh joy of joys, that they were in the middle of another thick fog. His breathing was erratic, panicked, as he tried to sort through the nightmare he had just experienced. But the details escaped him as he lay there, dressed in only a tattered loincloth, his pale and pink flesh exposed to the chill winds of the Korcari Wilds. Eventually, Pick managed to settle his ragged breathing down, squeezing his eyes shut and reminding himself of happier times.

Happier times. Pick could hardly consider the rest of his life as a happier time, but tried to focus on the pleasant memories. Of drawing a bow for the first time, of picking his first pocket, of biting into a sweet red apple as sea spray flecked his face, surrounded on all sides by his childhood friends. The actual events surrounding each memory were less than enjoyable, but Pick would have given anything to go back a year into his past. He would have given anything to be away from here, away from this stupid tent and away from the fucking savages.

He heard the tent buckle and shift as another gust of wind hit the fabric, heard the cloth billowing and flapping as the air assaulted it. The wind in the Wilds was deadly, dangerous. It cleaved at you like a sword, attacked you endlessly like a barbarian, and weighed you down like a boulder upon your back. The Chasind told stories of men flayed alive by the ferocious winds down south, but Pick scarcely wanted to find out if that was true. He found it difficult enough staying alive this far north.

The tent moved and danced about yet again, but Pick realized that it wasn't the wind. There had been footsteps outside, large and heavy footsteps, and another man breathing desperately in the cold winds. Pick was facing away from the entrance and exit of the tent, and feared to roll about on his side. What was he going to see? An angry shaman, with blood upon his face and a knife aimed for Pick's heart? A barbarian axe man, swinging his weapon down upon Pick with a lustful howl? Receiving release from this never ending torment would suit Pick just fine, but not if that meant being in further pain.

_Do it, you stupid shit. At least face death with some dignity. _That was Father talking again, old and mad in his last days, the sickness burning away at his withered old face.

Letting out a low groan, Pick rolled over on the wrecked blanket, turning his gaze upon the Chasind now towering before him. It was the same Chasind from before, Pick realized, the Chasind that always entered the tent. A big, dark-skinned man, with a wild shock of black hair upon his large head and red markings upon his face. This barbarian was huge, even given the tough nature of the Chasind, and dressed in ragged strips of leather and thick fur. The barbarian turned his grey eyes upon Pick, frowning, with the hint of a storm bubbling in his gaze.

"Get up. Get up, or else I'll kill you now." _A polite ser, he is. _

Pick was an outlaw, a fugitive, wanted by the King and the rest of Ferelden for crimes against the crown, but that didn't stop him from trembling at the words of the barbarian. "Please…" he mumbled, shaking upon the ground. "Don't hurt me."

The Chasind continued to frown as he bent over, slipping one iron arm under Pick's armpit and heaving him up with the strength of castle forged steel. Pick whimpered with pain as his head started to spin, and it took him a few agonizing seconds to plant his knees firmly upon the ground. It took him even longer to stand up and get out of the tent, but Pick had enough of punishment for a lifetime. If he was to face an end here, any sort of resolution or freedom, he was eager to get to it.

That didn't stop him from retching upon the ground once he had gotten out of the tent, but it kept him going even after his belly exploded in protest.

They watched him as he was marched through the village, their eyes angry and filled with sullen menace. The Chasind didn't like having him up and about through their home, which suited Pick just fine. _I don't want to be here either, you dumb pricks. Go fuck some more toads, leave me alone. _

They dressed much the same way as the barbarian that now dragged Pick around the village: in warm furs, in scavenged leather, in anything that they liked to wear. Some Chasind didn't even wear clothes at all, preferring to strut their cocks and cunts and breasts about in the icy breeze. It came with being savages, Pick could only guess as he was hauled about through the village. Some of the women he took a second glance at, but they glared daggers at him and spit upon his feet as he struggled past.

But they all had one thing in common: brands, markings, tattoos, they all were adorned in some way with ink and blood and mud. Some markings showed the graceful eagle, spreading both wings across the face like it was about to take off and sail away from the skin. Some markings showed a dark storm cloud upon the forehead, raining and thundering down the cheeks of the marked man or woman in question. And some of them were indecipherable to Pick, which suit him just fine. _I don't care what shit you've got smeared all over your face, just don't do it to me._

To call the Chasind settlement a village would be a compliment. It was situated in the middle of a bloody swamp, surrounded on all sides by the dark and imposing forest of the Korcari wilds. Most of the village was set up on a narrow piece of black land, with dead soil and wilted grass that proved somewhat stable, which was preferable to standing in swamp water and getting caught in a treacherous bog. That didn't stop some idiots from building their huts directly on top of the marsh, with only a few precarious wooden stilts preventing them from getting sunk and waterlogged in the swamp. Granted, Pick had never actually seen this happen, but it was bound to at some point.

The rest of the village could be described as such: huts and huts and huts, with only a few scarce tents to make the difference. Pick saw a cart or two dotting the perimeter of the camp, but otherwise didn't see any means of transport for the Chasind to use. There were no horses, no dogs, no rats, and no birds.

Walking about the Chasind camp was like walking through a graveyard, walking through the empty carcass of a wasted settlement, greeted only by the occasional sight of a starved and gloomy human marching through the grass, worry etched upon their face like they was made of stone. It was not a heartening place, to be sure.

And always, always, there was the damned mist.

The barbarian marched Pick towards the shaman's hut, followed by the rest of the small village, like a pack of vultures circling around a fresh kill. They were anxious for something, Pick dimly realized as his captor hauled him, dragged him, and pulled him over the ground like a heavy sack of dirt. They were waiting for something to happen, and that unknown something sent a chill across his spine.

The shaman, whose name was impossible for Pick to replicate, was situated on the far end of the camp, where the air seemed colder and the day seemed darker. The hut probably classified as a palace for the Chasind, what with it being wide enough to hold two beds and tall enough to grace the lowest branch on the neighbouring tree.

The shaman was the ultimate power in the Chasind tribe, as he had learned through guesswork and his own intuition (the barbarian had explained it to him on the first day of his imprisonment). A decision that involved the shaman must be something big, and Pick could only fervently hope that it meant his release. If he could just get away from these fucking primitives and their idea of medicine, he could potentially survive the next week.

Oh, who was he kidding? He was doomed.

The shaman was waiting for Pick in front of her home, amidst the totems and small statues that were clustered about the ground like grave markers. They were each distinct, each depicting some new image or animal that signified the symbol that they represented. They boasted of a powerful, tefrrible pantheon of wild gods that the Chasind worshipped fervently. Pick couldn't remember the name of a single one of them, and cared far less for them than he had for even the Chantry in Denerim. And he had hated the Chantry in Denerim, and went out of his way to piss into the collection boxes that the Chanters assembled every month or so. Right after he robbed them, of course.

The shaman herself was a small woman, all old and thin and wasted away, barely a walking corpse and more a ghost, a suggestion of a person that might have been. She was short, for one thing, and had a terrible limp that she refused to fix with a cane or walking stick. Her muscles seemed to have simply disappeared beneath her skin, leaving her arms and legs as sticks of bone covered with old and dried flesh. She was mostly bald, with a few thin slivers of white hair coming out from behind her ears. Her face played the gracious host to a vast array of pictures, icons, and symbols, all made of faded brown ink, which would have been quite legible had her many wrinkles not obscured key details in the images. She was creased, and ugly, and old, old, old. But when she fixed her milky white eyes upon him, Pick felt a dark surge of menace within his breast. _Oh, get me out of here. Maker, get me out of here._

Pick was in a horrible knot by the time that the barbarian finally dragged him before the shaman, and so the burly Chasind growled in annoyance, heaving Pick up above the ground and landing him on his feet. That sent Pick's stomach into another queasy direction, but Pick was able to contain himself. Barely. The barbarian turned his gaze upon the shaman, and offered a slight bow of the head.

And then the barbarian left his side, and Pick immediately missed his presence. Not for the great company, mind you, but more for the fact that Pick was liable to fall over flat onto his face without some big idiot to provide stability for him. But Pick managed to hold his ground, with some difficulty. With great difficulty, to be precise.

After a few moments of silent appraisal, the shaman slowly opened her mouth. Pick reeled mentally as he saw the two rows of pale pink gums, absent of any teeth, flapping back and forth at him, but he only flinched, and did not fall over. A good start. Meanwhile, the shaman began speaking, with a dry and raspy voice. "You should be honoured, Fereldan. We entertain few northern people here, you being the first in a long, long time."

"I would be honoured more if I didn't wake up to shit every morning." Turning his head back over his shoulder, Pick offered a weak and mocking smile towards his captor. "And I've figured out that the swamp water you give me is actually piss."

If frowns could kill, Pick would be dead.

But the shaman could only laugh, shaking her head in sick, sick amusement. "Very good, Fereldan! Very good. We figured you stupider, but the gods have given you some wit after all!" She nodded her head towards the barbarian, and Pick suddenly had a very good idea about where this was going.

The boot into the base of his spine came quickly, suddenly, without warning, and Pick could only yelp in startled pain as he crashed face first into the ground, landing at the shaman's feet. Attempting to get up again proved fruitless, as the barbarian stepped forward and placed his foot squarely between Pick's shoulder blades, preventing him from escaping this agonizing torment. The pain was back in full force, and Pick could only barely manage staying conscious.

The shaman, the crotchety old bitch, just kept laughing. "Very good! Very good!" Leaning forwards, she spit upon the back of Pick's head, cackling in her depraved manner as she did so. The saliva was warm and moist against his skin, disgusting him and his upset stomach to no end.

The strange thing was that the shaman was the only one laughing. The other Chasind, the ones that now flocked about the hut and watched the whole event as a ragged mob, didn't seem to be enjoying this. Pick would have expected laughter on their end, a few jeers or taunts thrown in for good measure, but no such insults were thrown at him. They simply stared, in their quiet and stoic manner, as if they were in prayer.

It was alright, though: the shaman laughed enough for the whole tribe. Wiping away bloody tears of mirth from her white eyes, the shaman grinned and smirked and smiled down at him. "I wonder, do you like being murdered for a change?"

_This is the first I've heard of any murder. _Spitting out a mouthful of dirt and mud, Pick struggled to speak against the weight of the barbarian's foot. "Please!" He cried. "I'm just a poacher!"

Now the shaman stopped laughing, and that set Pick's heart pounding. There were only a few seconds of silence, where she stared at him with naked hatred, naked contempt, with veins pulsing in her wispy little skull. And then the shaman gave a ferocious little war cry of her own, and started to lash out at Pick with her tiny feet, hitting him with surprising strength.

"Liar! Fereldan dog! Filthy savage!" Again and again, her little boot smashed into his face, into his forehead, into his shut eyes, into his crooked nose, into his broken teeth. After a quick but vicious beating, the shaman eventually tired of the kicks, and stood there, panting and seething in anger over him. Pick groaned and pushed his face against the ground, rubbing his bruised skin against the grass to get some measure of comfort. Instead, he only discovered that his nose was freshly broken, dark blood seeping from the nostrils in a torrent. _Shit. Busted by the little old grandmother._

The shaman must have commanded the barbarian to release him, as the foot upon his back was suddenly lifted up and away, with no small measure of relief on Pick's part. But he could not get a chance to rest, as the old shaman suddenly bent down and gripped his head with her long and thin fingers. It felt like a skeleton was holding his face, all bone and chill purpose, no warmth to be found in the touch.

She stared down into his eyes, her own flooded with dark intentions and angry fires, like a ghoul possessed with some last quest of vengeance. It caused Pick to tremble in her hands, to shake and quiver in fear as he wondered what he could have possibly done to deserve this. Being held captive by the Chasind was bad enough, but tortured to death by an old hag was more than he could handle.

"Where are my daughters?" The shaman hissed, spittle spraying against his skin. "Where are my daughters?" She repeated, her fingertips clawing into his temples. "Killed them, raped them, skinned them! Where are they, Fereldan?"

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTERS ARE!" Pick roared, his face turning red despite the black and blue bruises. "I DON'T KNOW THEM, OR YOU, OR ANYONE IN THIS FUCKING TRIBE!" The shaman seemed stunned enough by his sudden howling that he continued. "AND I DIDN'T KILL THEM, OR RAPE THEM, OR SKIN THEM! BUT I WISH I COULD DO THAT NOW, YOU FUCKING CHASIND BITCH!"

That was all Pick could manage before his foot was suddenly yanked away, his body being dragged off forcefully from the shaman. At first, he knew relief, glad to be away from that horrid woman if only by a hair's breadth. But then he was flipped about on the ground, landing upon his back with little grace, the fresh fires of pain igniting upon his skin again, and he remembered despair and hopelessness.

"Kill him!" cried the shaman, curling and twisting her hands into tight, compact fists. "Kill him!" chanted the Chasind horde, finally finding a cause to become passionate for. "Kill him!" shouted the Maker, and his father, and his mother, and his friends, all determined for him to be wiped away from the face of Thedas like the insect that he was.

The barbarian let out an angry growl and pounced upon Pick, jumping onto his chest and knocking the wind out of him. The iron grip of the Chasind was locked about Pick's throat, his burly thighs straddling his sides tightly, cracking ribs and breaking bones as the end drew near. Pick choked and fought for all his worth, thrashing his limbs about at the barbarian atop him, but it was no use. He was too weak, too tired, and too useless for such a task. And this Chasind was too strong for him to fight, too strong for him to resist.

His vision darkening, his breath absent, his heart frozen in his breast, Pick struggled to take in fresh air, struggled to find the sun amidst the heavy gray mist that surrounded him now. He struggled and fought, but it was no use. Death had come to claim him.

And, as the darkness was about to take him, Pick relived the nightmare he had experienced the night before.

_Black sky. Red ash. Fire. Fire through shadows, burning red and orange and purple, burning from the dragon's mouth. Spines, bones, teeth, fangs. Coming in the night, coming for me. Steel and sickness and shadows, one monstrous horde. Coming in the night, coming for Ferelden. Coming in the night, coming for me._

A horn sounded.

Beyond the angry grunts and growls of the barbarian atop him, and the sound of his own life draining in his ears, Pick could barely hear the noise, so quiet was it to him. But the Chasind heard it, and he was surprised to hear it. A look of confusion crossed the barbarian's face, his grip loosening for just one brief second. It was enough for Pick to wrestle the big meaty hands away from his throat, desperately drawing in a few gasps of ragged air when his windpipe was clear. Color soon returned to his vision, and his heart gradually started to beat once again within his breast.

The big Chasind did not attempt to strangle him again; he just sat up on his knees and turned his head about in either direction. Something was perplexing him, as it was the rest of the tribe. As Pick wormed his way out from under the barbarian, his chest heaving with exertion, he glanced at the shaman, but she too was staring out into the distance, a sudden fear having seized her wits as well.

It was only then that he heard the screams.

They were subtle, barely noticeable as his heart pounded endlessly in his ears, thankful to still be active and alive, but once Pick heard the barest trace of them, it was all he could hear. The chill wind buffeted them anew with a fresh assault, and it carried with it the sound of terrified screaming, pained screaming, and bestial screaming. There was no immediate source of it, yet: another thick fog had descended over the village, and Pick could scarcely see beyond the large crowd of Chasind tribe members.

But the screams were there. They made his sweat run thick and his palms to shake, so horrifying were they. Pick had heard the screams of a man in pain, heard the screams of the tortured as they breathed out their last. But screams during a battle were new to him, and there was most definitely a battle accompanying the screams: sounds of steel clashing, of angry roaring, of bodies being ripped open, of blood hitting the ground in a torrent.

After a few seconds of stunned listening, the shaman seemed to wake up, albeit to a terrifying nightmare. "REGROUP!" She howled into the din of battle. "REGROUP AND RETREAT!"

Everything descended into chaos after that.

Pick was too slow to start running with the rest of them, and so he could only stumble after the retreating forms of the Chasind as they descended into the fog. It seemed a well-practiced, well rehearsed manoeuvre: one second, they were there, and the next they were gone, scattering away like leaves on the wind. Pick, meanwhile, trudged aimlessly through the dirt and muck and swamp water, too confused to understand what was going on.

But at the very least, he was thankful. Something had come along and saved him at the last minute, saving him from an early and untimely death. He wondered what the hell could possibly be going on to do such a thing, but at the very least he could thank the Maker and his good fortune. _I'm alive! I'm alive! I'm alive! _He cheered endlessly in his head, a sudden smile crossing his filthy and damaged features.

He was distracted, and that made it easy for the shadow to find him. When Pick realized that he was being followed, it was not through the instincts of a battle born solider. He heard the loud and large predator chasing after him, splashing thunderously through the marsh and churning the ground under its wake, heard it with the ears of the suddenly doomed prey.

He started running, but it was no use. The shadow was faster than him, stronger than him. Pick scrambled and struggled through the swamp, darting through patches of bog and barging through the undergrowth, but the shadow was gaining on him easily. He risked a few glances back over his shoulder, but each time he was only rewarded with a dark and indiscernible figure, its features lost to the endless mist. And each time he looked back, the thing got closer.

The chase wore on and on and on, lasting for days in Pick's mind, but only a few minutes in reality. It burned Pick's lungs and ached his tired body to sheer agony, but Pick wore on. He wore on, eager to not waste the life he had been rewarded with by the Maker.

It was ended when Pick stumbled upon a hidden plant root, deep underneath the swamp water, that caused him to fall into the marsh. Icy cold water rose up to meet him, rushed down his throat, pierced deep into his stomach. Pick choked and thrashed and screamed in the black murk, hands outstretched and searching for something to latch onto, but to no avail. He was lost, beneath the dark pools of the bog, surrendered to the insatiable evil of the Korcari Wilds.

A hand that burnt like cold iron touched his back, grasped his tunic, pulled him out of the water. Pick could scarcely believe his luck, and choked out the swamp water that had run down his mouth, sputtering and swallowing and thankful to be alive. Once his throat was clear, Pick managed a few words before he turned about to face his rescuer. "Thank you…"

Pale face. White, dead eyes. Black veins. Sick grin. Flash of steel.

Death.


	2. Garrett

Garrett

The word was everywhere, and he didn't need a bann to understand what was going on. It didn't take a bann to pierce together the rumours, the gossip, the whispered words and hushed tones spread throughout the tavern. It didn't take a bann to listen to the stragglers, the refugees, the farmers, and the bandits to know what was happening. It didn't take a bann to put two and two together, regardless of what the highborn might think.

It was quite simple to understand, after all. It resonated within your chest, pulled at your gut, struck a chord in your soul. It was familiar to everyone, though experienced by few, and everyone could tell you what it was and what it meant. It was as common to some as breathing, or rare as a golden scaled dragon to others. It struck like a thunderstorm, afflicted people like a disease, killed like a butcher. One only had to close his eyes and listen to understand what was happening.

War.

Garrett had heard the talk in Dane's Refuge, after all. Wide eyes, shaking hands, trembling figure. They spoke quickly, they spoke slowly, and they didn't speak at all. They told tales of grey men haunting the Korcari Wilds, they exchanged speculations about the Chasind tribes migrating north, and they wondered openly about when the King was going to address these issues. But, when it came right down to it, they were, one and all, saying the exact same thing.

War.

So, why was a bann necessary to tell him all that? Why did he have to listen to Bann Tallon at all, who was saying much the same things that Garrett had already deduced for himself? Why were banns necessary, when common folk knew what time to farm, what time to harvest, and what time to fight? Why did Bann Tallon choose to conduct his announcement outside, in the rain? Did he have no earthly idea of how long his damn speech was going to take?

_Well, I guess the bann makes this official. War is coming to Lothering._

"King Cailan Theirin, the first of his name, has sent forth this royal decree." Bann Tallon announced, blinking his beady eyes once, then twice, then thrice. He wrinkled his nose slightly at the crowd before him, reaching into his pocket for aforementioned royal decree. He was rewarded with nothing, his hand dipping into the pocket to find that no such decree was present. A frown crossed his wrinkled old face, and he shifted his hand to try the other pocket.

Success seemed to come about this time, and Tallon slowly eased a thick vellum parchment out from his pocket. The bann used one hand to cover the parchment from the rain as he set up about opening it with the other, muttering nonsensically as he did so.

Tallon was old in his years and grew more absent-minded with every passing day, and the people of Lothering had grown accustomed to it by now. But when the Bann accidentally dropped the parchment, letting the vellum slide from his thin fingertips and hit the muddy ground in a heap, Carver let out a loud sigh.

"By the Maker." Putting a hand up to his head, the younger Hawke made a dramatic show of his frustration by sighing twice more and testing his knuckles in a tight fist he held down by his side. A few people in front of Carver turned about and glared at him, but it didn't do them any good: Carver just stared past them with that irritated look of his. A look that said, "Get me out of here, right now."

_A look that said, "I wish Peaches were here." I wonder if she likes a man in uniform. If so, I may not get Carver back until sunrise._

A slight smile crossed Garrett's face, and he shook his head firmly. Carver had little patience and little wisdom, and was content to act like an imbecile if it gave him just a few seconds of attention. And, as always, it was up to Garrett to straighten him out.

He wouldn't say that he liked hitting Carver, far from it. But there was a small sense of satisfaction to be had whenever he thumped his open palm against the back of his brother's head, creating a loud _thwack! _and a look of pained bewilderment upon Carver's face, followed by annoyance, irritancy, and anger. This time, Carver just skipped to the latter emotions.

"Hey!" He cried, turning to Garrett and baring his big meaty arms before his older brother. "Try hitting me again, this time when I'm watching." Garrett would have loved to indulge in this whim of Carver's, but Tallon had apparently rescued the parchment from a watery grave, and was now drying it out on the side of his fine, broad coat. _I wonder how many nobles in this country would die screaming at the sight of such a horrible use of high fashion. How many of them Orlesians, I wonder?_

"There we are." The bann started again, ignoring the antics of the brothers Hawke as if they had never happened in the first place. Bann Tallon was a stooped and thin old man, with a bent back and wispy gray hair, mostly bones where there was once muscle. For his dedicated service in driving the Orlesians out from Ferelden, King Maric had awarded him the position of bann in Lothering. A good choice, back when Tallon had been twenty years younger. But now? Tallon seemed an apt ruler for the sleepy, underwhelming, and disappointing town that had, for some reason, earned a place on the many maps of Ferelden.

Carver turned back to face the bann grudgingly as the speech started anew, grumbling in a low voice that Garrett recognized well. _He'll whine about it for a minute, then forget everything the moment something more interesting catches his eye. _It was Carver's way, the way that Garrett had unofficially dubbed, "The Way of the Whiny Bitch in Heat."

"From the hand from King Cailan Theirin," Tallon recited, blinking ferociously as he stared at the vellum parchment. "First of his name, Royal Lord of Ferelden, Protector of Elves, Dwarves, and Men…" Glancing up from the decree, he attempted a weak smile. "You know how it goes."

There was a smattering of nervous laughter in the crowd, but it died down quickly enough for Tallon to look disappointed. "Well, ahem." Clearing his throat, the bann attempted to start his speech again, and Garrett could feel the similar annoyance that Carver felt being shared by the rest of the crowd. Everywhere, dirt-covered faces were letting out a sigh, glancing all around, wishing for Tallon to just get to the damn point.

The militia was primarily made up of farmers, as was befitting a town like Lothering. Situated at a major crossroads, where the road from Denerim met the Imperial Highway and continued on to Redcliffe, few people ever decided to stay in Lothering as a permanent resident. Those that did were attracted by the semi-fertile farmland to the north and west of the settlement, and thus, farmers inhabited the town.

The motley mob was gathered before the village Chantry, the largest and grandest building to be found for miles and miles in any direction. Constructed of stone and wood, it had high walls, wide steps leading into the Chantry proper, and small, measly shrubs growing to either side of the entrance. There was a garden at the back of the building, but Garrett knew from experience that it was a very pitiful affair. Dead bushes, dead wood, dead flowers. Nothing grew there, and nothing had for years.

_Bethany enjoyed it, even so. I snuck her over the fence more than a few times, broke more than a few twigs trying to hurl her over. Now she won't come within eyesight of the building. Too scared of it, I suppose. Too scared of the open sun._

The sun of the Chantry, small and common, flowed proudly off the torn banner that flapped lazily in the breeze. It hung from the very highest point on the Chantry roof, higher even than the bann's flag or the King's flag. It had a constant vigil over the town of Lothering, always present to remind us of who gave us our land, lives, and so forth and such. Other shit like that.

"All men and women conscripted into the King's service are now requested to join their comrades in the south for military action against an enemy most foul and terrible. All men and women seeking a life in the King's service are also requested to join the army, as all hands will be needed to combat this most serious of threats. All knights, banns, arls, and teryns are advised to leave a garrison in their lands, but are also requested to bring their own banner men south to combat the… the…" Tallon seemed to have trouble reading the next part of the decree, and seemed more than a little incredulous as he finally said, "to combat the darkspawn."

Angry mutterings, surprised looks, whispers of a pray on the breeze. The sky above was dark, cloudy, and grey, the sun absent from the world for this most ominous of days. Rain, which had been so abundant during the previous night and morning, seemed to have withdrawn for the moment, but Garrett had a feeling that it would break out again any time now. He let out a small breath of air that he had been saving in his chest from the moment that the speech started anew, a little relieved that it was gone, more than terrified about what it meant in the future.

Darkspawn.

Shit.

He had heard the tales, of course. What child had not heard of the darkspawn, tainted creatures that emerged in the night to drag children from their beds, kicking and screaming? What child had not heard of genlocks and ogres and shrieks, nightmarish monsters that came up from the ground to terrorize Thedas and all the people of the world? What child had not heard of the Blights?

Of course, he had been raised on legends and myths. Darkspawn hadn't been seen for centuries, outside of the dwarven kingdoms, and no one gave a damn about them anymore. _But, if the King acknowledges the darkspawn as a threat, they must be real. Truly? _

He remembered a story that his father had once told him, long ago. It had been after a vicious storm, one that had flooded their field with ice cold rain and had scared young Bethany and Carver in their beds. It had scared Garrett too, more than he cared to admit, but he had to be strong for his sibling's sake. The young boy had wandered near the open fireplace, still smouldering in an attempt to outlast the storm, and he had huddled next to it for warmth. His father had found him there, shivering and trembling on the ground, and had covered him up with a wool blanket, a warm smile across his face. "Garrett," he would say, "being brave is all well and good, but remember to keep yourself warm and safe too."

In truth, Garrett could not remember what his father had looked like back then. He was always told that he looked exactly like Malcolm Hawke in his younger days, and so tried to imagine his features copied onto his father's face. Short, wavy brown hair, splayed out on top of a pale face. Bright blue eyes, vibrant and energetic, set into angular features with a strong jaw. Bethany always told him that he looked more trustworthy than handsome, more intimidating than he was beautiful. Carver just said he looked like an ass, and Garrett could only smile at himself as he imagined the face of a mule sticking out of his father's neck.

Garrett should have gone to bed after that, and let a deep and peaceful sleep take over him. But at that moment, he hadn't felt like sleeping. Instead, the boy wandered over to one of their rattling windows and stared out into the swirling darkness of the night, watched as the storm washed over the land like an ocean wave. "Father," he had said, "can you tell me a story?"

He had hoped for something warm and cheery and pleasant, something to scare away the terrors that lurked about outside, but when Malcolm Hawke joined him at the window, Garrett could sense that he was getting a much different sort of tale. His father slowly frowned, gazing out into the world with a silent but fearsome gaze. Long moments passed, with the small boy leaning against his father for warmth, but finding nothing for his efforts.

"A story?" Malcolm finally asked, and turned to his boy with cold eyes. "Are you sure you want to hear a story?"

Garrett nodded. After all, what else was he supposed to do?

Malcolm then settled himself up on the ground beside his son, and turned to face the fireplace, watching it as if to invoke his memory in a blaze of activity. After following the embers as they sparked, moved, and faded, Malcolm had let out a deep breath of air. "Oh, Garrett. You think this storm is terrible, but there was a time in Thedas's history when such an event would be a reprieve from the horror of everyday life. It was a time where monsters walked the earth in hordes and shadows could strike and kill without warning. A time of fear and darkness. Is this a story you'd want to hear?"

Garrett had almost been scared into silence by the sudden shift that Malcolm had taken into horror, but he managed to let out a weak "Yes" in response.

"A long time ago," his father started, his voice thick and deep as he drifted away into memory, "there was a group of men that ruled the world. Wise and powerful men, gathered from every corner of the world, to do as they pleased with their ancient magic. They would only wish for something, and it was so. They could wish for cities, armies, titles, empires, and they would have it. But this power came at a terrible, terrible price." Closing his eyes, Malcolm sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But that's another story, for a different time."

Despite his initial trepidation, Garrett had felt a surge of curiosity beat in his heart. What price? What price could be too much for such an amazing power? Garrett would certainly like to have wished for a few things there, himself: a new magic sword, a kingdom to rule, a better younger brother.

_Hell, I could do with those now. Maybe throw in a sultry pirate queen, and I'd be all set for life._

But he never had the chance to ask, as Malcolm continued on. "But there was one thing that they could not do." Opening his bright blue eyes again, Malcolm then let a slight small cross his lips. "Try as they might, one thing was denied to them. It is denied to all men, until they are able to prove themselves good and noble and valiant and kind." Turning his gaze to Garrett, Malcolm pursed his lips as he asked, "Of what do I speak?"

According to the Revered Mother, there was only one possible answer. Garrett breathed, "Heaven."

"Yes." If Malcolm was pleased by the answer, he did not show it. Instead, he seemed to further withdraw into his gloom. "The Golden City. The seat of the Maker. Some say that it is a paradise, a place where the good people of Thedas are rewarded for their devotion and sacrifice in life." Putting a hand atop his son's head, Malcolm ruffled Garrett's head gently. It would have set Garret's heart in the right place in any other circumstance, but he was too immersed into the story to feel comfort now. "For your sake," Malcolm whispered fiercely, "I hope you never see the Golden City."

"Why?"

"For it has been touched by mortal souls." Sighing, Malcolm continued the story. "You see, in the end, these men managed to reach the Golden City. What depths they had sunken to in order to do it, I do not know, but such passage is not bought with mere force alone. But they reached the Golden City, and entered the Maker's Hall, and cast their eyes upon the Maker himself."

"And with that gaze, they destroyed heaven."

"The Golden City crumbled underneath their feet, turning black and twisted and wrong by their presence. The Maker howled in fury, and raised a fist to strike them. With a single blow, he cast them out of heaven and back onto earth, but the damage was already done." Leaning his head back against the wall, Malcolm shook his head. "The Golden City is gone, and instead, there now only is the Black City."

"But," Malcolm murmured, fixing his eyes upon Garrett's. A slight chill made its way across the young Hawke's back. "The men that had reached the Golden City were not dead. Instead, their sin transformed them as it had heaven, and they were blackened themselves into monstrous reflections of their true selves. Hideous they were, with black blood and white skin, tainted and cursed by their transgression against the Maker."

"Stripped of their vanity, pride, and sanity, they only had their anger left to them. And so, they turned against the rest of the Thedas." Suddenly, a grim smile had emerged across Malcolm's face, and he turned his attention back to Garrett. "Would you like to hear what happened next?"

It was a quiet answer, but one that Garrett managed to give his father. "Yes."

"They ravaged the land. They killed, and slaughtered, and butchered their once fellow men. They heaped bodies together in the streets, created flowing rivers of blood that ran slick across the cobblestone. They killed and killed and killed, and didn't stop until they were all put down like the animals that they had become. Thedas wept for the fallen, wept for the countless dead and the millions scarred, and wept for the future."

"Because, in the end, we cannot stop these men. We cannot stop these monsters, for they will come at us again and again and again. Just when we think that we have finally annihilated them, down to the last, they will appear once again and attack us when we least expect it."

"And we will never stop it, for it is not in our power to stop it. From this day to the last day, from age to age, from my life to your life, they will be there. Darkspawn, we call them. But they are not created from shadows and evil. They are spawned from the darkest pits of our heart, from the sin that lays within us, from every man, woman, and child on Thedas."

"And all because of a little pride." Malcolm's smile had become haunting, revolting, terrifying. Garrett still winced at the memory. "And so, remember this, my son: be warm and safe and at peace, rather than brave the gap that none can cross."

Garrett later learned that his father had been drinking heavily on said night, and could faintly remember the sick odour of alcohol wafting from Malcolm's mouth when he spoke that night, faintly remember the half-empty bottle he had clutched in one hand while ruffling his hair with the other. It was always his mother's explanation for why Malcolm had been so awful that night, but Garrett didn't believe it was so. Maybe the dark storm had brought it out of his father, maybe the awful night that had loomed all about them.

_Huh. I always remembered that as a pleasant memory._

"Garrett!"

The cry reached his ears before he even caught sight of the farmhouse, an impressive feat for the light voice of Bethany Hawke. Carver had heard it too, and let out a low groan as he realized the implications of said cry. "By the Maker…" His brother muttered, shaking his head. "Does she ever stop?"

Grinning back at him, Garrett shrugged. "When she's dead, maybe. Even then, I can imagine her corpse getting back up and scolding you until the end of time."

"You're an idiot."

"I try."

The path that meandered through the Hawke farmland was of hard gravel and dirt, tightly packed down against the ground after countless trips across it. Malcolm had made the path himself after he had built the house and the fence surrounding their land, and had spent many hours of tedious, difficult work trying to craft the path from the front step of his farmhouse to the village of Lothering itself. It didn't actually stretch all the way out to Lothering, but instead connected with the farmer's road that ran through all of the owned land surrounding the village. Still, an impressive piece of work for someone that grew up in a life of scholarly education and little menial labour. It was a true shame that the Hawke children scarcely used the path.

The rain had started coming down again, pattering endlessly against the top of Garrett's head and the stalks of wheat that made up their fields, but that didn't stop Garrett from catching the sound of light footsteps against hard ground. He was used to the sound, a sound that had dominated much of his childhood. It was the sound of excitement, of an adventure to be had. It always stirred the blood, made him eager for what was about to happen next.

Suddenly, with nothing more than a final parting of wheat and a breath of anticipation, Bethany burst out of the undergrowth and tackled him. Garrett could scarcely do anything but smile and wrap his arms around her back, holding her tightly to him. Such attacks were common in the Hawke household, and even though Carver had long given up the tradition of play-fighting and hugging, Bethany always reserved such an attack for when her brothers were arriving home.

"You're going off to fight." She whispered against his shoulder, pressing her pale and cold face against his skin. "You're going off to war against the darkspawn, and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm going to talk and try to stop you, but it won't do any good. Mother will talk and try to stop you, but it won't do any good."

Garrett realized that she had been crying, and that was not a good sign. When Bethany cried, it meant that Leandra had a lecture. Carver let out a disgusted sigh, but Garrett only shook his head. "Bethany," he started, pulling back slightly from the embrace, "where did you hear that?"

His sister stared back at him, her own blue eyes red and bloodshot, her long black hair in a messy tangle. She waited a few anxious moments before answering the question, her face flushed with embarrassment. "From the tavern." She whispered, and Carver groaned.

"The tavern? Really?" Putting a hand to his head, Carver continued to groan at his twin. "The one place you shouldn't be! How did you convince Mother to let you sneak off this time?"

"Give it up, Carver." Garrett announced, chuckling. "Bethany never gives up her secrets, especially not to you." Despite his own secret worry about Bethany being visible inside Lothering proper, Garrett managed to keep smiling as he punched his brother in the arm, eliciting another surprised cry of pain. "If you want to hide from Mother, learn your own way to do it!"

Bethany had been crying, yes, but one could scarcely determine that from the cheerful laugh she gave. Lunging forward to hug her own twin, Bethany smiled a wide and bright smile. "Don't worry about me; I'm not riding off to war." Carver made an annoyed sound upon being hugged, and weakly attempted to shake off his sister. _Yet not as strong as I know it could have been. _

Garrett grinned from ear to ear as he watched his siblings hug, a wealth of memories arising in his head. The two younger Hawkes differed in many ways, but physically they were twins. They both had dark hair, blue eyes, wide cheeks, short noses, and were both quite shorter than Garrett. They inherited more of Mother's features, while Garrett was more a product of Malcolm Hawke than anything else. _Shame. If Carver had horns instead of hair, we could call him a qunari orphan and ship him off to Par Vollen._

Malcolm Hawke seemed to laugh inside his head. _"If Carver had black blood and white skin, we could call him a darkspawn."_

_Fuck you, Father. _This sudden grim thought removed Garrett's smile from his face, and he shook his head slowly. Turning away from his bantering siblings, he made the rest of the journey towards the house alone, his mind a storm of dark tidings and dark omens, dark futures and dark destinies. Thinking of Malcolm Hawke often sent his mind to work like that, and it seemed to prepare his thoughts suitably when facing Leandra Amell in all her motherly glory.

His mother stood there, before the door of the farmhouse, dressed in a simple brown tunic with a leather skirt hanging from her waist, dressed as plain as your next farmer's wife. Yet Leandra was certainly not plain, and certainly not a farmer's wife: nobility and grace seemed to shine from her stance and her body and her face, a look that suited her well even when dirt and grime and sweat marred the image.

Her gray hair swept down her bony shoulders like a mantle, her long, thin fingers tapping impatiently against the side of her leg, her soft brown eyes watching him and judging him. She had wide cheeks and a short nose, like Carver and Bethany, and looked quite kind and gentle when happy. However, she was not happy. She was almost never happy.

"Tallon has sent for the militia, then?"

Wincing, despite the rather casual comment, Garrett nodded. "Yes. It was a long-winded speech, but the message was clear. We make for the Hinterlands tomorrow."

"At first light?"

"Yes."

"You said 'we'. However, Carver will not be following you."

_Damn it, Mother. _Garrett let out a sigh, and shook his head. He almost dared to take a step towards Leandra, but decided against it once he got a second look at her glare. _I don't want Carver following me either, but that's beside the point. _"We are sworn into the King's service, mother. I don't want to be branded a deserter, and neither does Carver. You know how much he wants to prove himself."

"Prove himself?" Leandra had a pained expression upon her face. "Lose himself, you mean. He can fight against you all he likes, with practice swords and axes and clubs, but not against actual opponents." And, almost in a whisper, "Not against darkspawn."

Against his better judgement, Garrett mustered up the nerve to quietly mutter, "And yet I'm allowed to go."

Quick as a whip, Leandra lashed against him. "Don't you dare say that to me!" Her words were quick and to the point, cutting into him like daggers of guilt. Knives of shame. "You are old enough to be considered a man. I didn't stop you from joining the militia because you can protect yourself." Stabbing a finger out towards the path and the twins, Leandra shook her head firmly. "But not Carver. He's too young, too bold. I won't lose him to those… monsters."

"I can protect Carver, mother." He grit his teeth, and managed to close the distance between them by one step more. It was a small difference, but it seemed to give him a new position of strength. "I've protected him for the last fifteen years; I think I can keep it up for the next few months."

"You don't understand." Leandra plainly responded, but the words hammered into him like a fist in the belly. "You've never fought in a war, either. You don't know what will happen!" Stepping forward to him, Leandra planted a hand on his shoulder and clasped it tightly. Too tightly, for her age. _A mother's wrath is a terrible one, indeed. _"I won't lose another Hawke, not again."

Unbidden, Garrett's eyes wandered away from her face and towards the south fields. The rain shimmered against the wheat and the grass, briefly glinting like silver, like gold, before it vanished into the undergrowth. Out there, Garrett knew, on the very southern tip of their farmland, would be the filled plot and the tombstone. Out there, Garrett knew, would be the grave of Malcolm Hawke.

In the end, it was a sickness that took hold of him. Too much drinking, maybe, or just a chance encounter with a nasty disease. Whatever the reason, Malcolm woke up one morning to find himself in a feverish, weak state. He coughed blood, shit badly, and could barely see through his two perfectly intact eyes. Garrett had went to go fetch a healer, leaving his mother to comfort the twins, but it was all to no avail.

In the end, it was a sickness that took hold of him. Not templars, or darkspawn, or his own damn son. In the end, Malcolm Hawke died in bed, surrounded by his family, too weak to say any last words to them. In the end, it was Garrett that cleaned his corpse, said the last rites, and buried him.

Before Garrett could reassure his mother, Leandra launched into another argument. "And what about Bethany? If the templars find her when you two aren't around…"

"And what would we do, exactly?" Garrett suddenly roared. "Would we strike the templars down on the doorstep, stab them in the neck until dead? Would we bury the bodies in the field and hope nobody notices? Would we leave the farm and get back on the run, abandoning Lothering for another asscrack of Ferelden?"

"Or maybe we'd take the war to the Chantry! Maybe we'd go into town and kill all the templars there! Maybe we can even kill all the priests and priestesses and the initiates, and maybe the villagers too! Maybe we'll just keep killing people and darkspawn and creatures that attack us, and in the end the Hawke family will be perfectly safe, happy, and content!"

Leandra, thankfully, had nothing to say to that. Nor did Carver and Bethany, who had arrived just in time to catch the tail end of that explosive rant. Garrett felt his family's eyes upon him, and it was not a comforting sensation: their shocked and startled eyes swept over his body, judging him, frightened by him. Their eyes were upon him, and he hated the feeling.

He wanted to leave them and just start walking, in any direction that took him away from here. Be it south or north or west or east, any movement was a welcome movement. He could go off and fight the darkspawn, or head east and become a mercenary in Denerim, or go to Amaranthine to take port and head for some foreign, exotic land, or go west into Orlais for a new culture, life, and lifestyle. He just wanted to leave.

But that wasn't an option. That was never an option. Malcolm had told him as much, Leandra told him as much, Carver told him as much, and Bethany told him as much. Garrett told himself as much, every night as he went to bed. _I have to stay, no matter what. I have to stay, and do the job my father neglected to do._

"Please." He quietly said, once he managed to regain control of himself. Garrett looked up to his mother with pleading eyes. "Trust me, and trust Carver. We're not children anymore, we're ready for this. If we don't start fighting now, we never will. And then, who will defend us when the darkspawn are ravaging the land and kicking down the door?" Nodding, Garrett put his hand atop his mother's hand. "I promised Father I would defend you, and Carver, and Bethany to the end. I will always follow that promise, believe me."

Leandra hardly tried to speak for a few moments, just stared at her son wordlessly. Finally, she clasped his big hand with both of hers, and squeezed tightly. "And if the battle fails? Will you promise to come back and defend us?"

"Of course." Garrett offered her a smile. "Of course I will."

_Good words. I don't believe them, myself, but hopefully they do._


	3. Theron

Theron

They didn't make their way across the woods. To say that would be an insult to the woods, and an overly generous compliment to their path-finding abilities. Rather, they stumbled throughout the woods, drunken and confused, tripping over roots and crashing into bushes, making a general mockery of both themselves and humans in general.

It would have been a quiet morning in the forest, had these three idiots not decided to ruin it with their stupidity. The pale sun was flickering through the tree canopy, fleeting and comforting, bringing light to what otherwise was a dark place. Green treetops and black trunks mixed with yellow grass, brown bushes, pale berries, and sickly fruits.

It was a wonder that they made it this far at all, Theron reflected as he watched the three haggard and terrified men clumsily run through the undergrowth. The Brecilian Forest was not kind to outsiders, and humans especially were not welcome. Better suited for farming or fighting or fucking, _shemlen _were quickly swallowed up by the "haunted woods" that plagued eastern Ferelden.

Theron could only imagine the type of rumours that were spread about the forest, ancient and unforgiving as it was. _Filled with ghosts and monsters and demons, they'd say. Cannibals and rapists and savages abound, each terrible in his own way, but all of them a lesser evil compared to the hideous Dalish. A tribe of primitive knife-ears, painted like exotic whores, vicious as starving wolves. They marry their siblings and ride deer to war, they cut their cocks off and hit people with them, they are a group of mud-eaters with their heads in the ground and their own arses._

He had been told as much by humans before, brave ones that spat in his face and insulted him even while he stood directly before them, and it still made him chuckle even now. He didn't take stupidity well on most circumstances, but there was something about defiant, thick-brained _shems _that made him want to laugh in their face. Their insults never bothered him, just amused him. Their taunts never angered him, just annoyed him. And their attacks… well, Theron had never been attacked by a human before. He would relish the opportunity, though.

_Who knows? Today might be my lucky break._

Tamlen seemed to agree with that sentiment, though Theron had never voiced it. His friend was anxious, that much was clear. Tamlen could attempt to hide his true emotions from view with his constant and vigilant gaze, with his tight grip and strong posture, but Theron knew better. _You're as close to cracking as I am, my dear friend, and no amount of chest-puffing is going to change that fact._

"We should kill them now." Tamlen murmured, shaking his sandy hair from side to side. "It'd be easy. Two shots from me, one from you, and we'd be done."

"More like two from me, one from you, but that's beside the point." Theron shook his head, resting the end of his bow against his shoulder. "The point is that we have no reason to kill them. They're just heading in our direction, that's it. I doubt they could do any of us harm even if they tried."

"You are reckless, stupid, and naïve!" Bold words for Tamlen, Theron would say, but his friend continued on, whipping his steely gaze about to settle upon Theron. "Three unarmed humans are still a threat to you and me and the clan! They could ambush us or steal from us or bring the human army down upon our heads!"

_Oh, by the Creators. Someone is being a bit fanciful today. _Resisting the urge to guffaw at the suggestions, Theron only smiled and placed a hand upon Tamlen's shoulder. The touch distracted the hunter from his prey, which was a helpful side effect in these circumstances. "Trust me," Theron began, his features warm and friendly, "nothing will happen. I won't let it happen, and neither will you."

"Then we'll kill them now!"

Theron suddenly squeezed down on Tamlen's shoulder, going from comforting one moment to forceful the next. His friend winced but said nothing; thank the Creators, as they were making a big enough racket as it was. "_Len'alas lath'din!_" Theron hissed. "For the last time, we're not going to kill them!"

Silence prevailed over all, for a moment. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know! It's just something Hahren Paivel calls me."

That shut his fellow Dalish up, and so Theron was able to return his attention over to the humans. _Did they hear all of that? Oh, they must have heard all of that. Soon, talk will all be over the town of me and Tamlen's little spat. _But no, it seemed that they were oblivious to the Dalish elves watching them from the nearby rise, hidden behind a sickly green bush. They just kept running, and running, and running, a remarkable feat for people so exhausted.

Exhausted, wounded, terrified and starved, they looked to be in bad shape indeed. The first one, a squat little man plodding relentlessly ahead on his two short legs, was covered head to toe in dirt and mud. It drenched his clothes and clung to his hair, but Squat didn't seem to mind. The look of terror on his face was plain to see, and he only looked back over his shoulder to yell at his companions. Theron could hear him, even from a distance: "RUN! COME ON! RUN! FUCK, RUN!"

You could scarcely blame his companions, however, for their lack of speed. The second human, bulky and tow-headed, was carrying a heavy sack in his hands, and the contents would clang together with every step. That was the first indicator of their presence in the forest, that loud and stupid clanging, although Theron would doubtless have picked up on the other signals soon enough. These three were not woodsmen, and more likely than not some bear would have them in his stomach before long.

For _shem _the third, it looked the bear's stomach had already been visited. Whereas Squat was covered in only dirt, this human was covered equally in both dirt and blood, dried gore that clung to his skin. He looked deathly pale, and could only limp along on his weak left leg, far behind the others, shouting for some kind of help or aid. If anyone needed to die, it was Limp: he wouldn't last any longer in the Brecilian Forest.

On the whole, the band of humans made Theron more curious than anything else. He had to admit that, yes, they could potentially become a threat to the Sabrae clan, but that was doubtful in their current state. Knights and soldiers and armed peasants were dangerous to the Dalish, not three tired and scared humans with shit in their clothes and piss running down their leg. He just wanted to know why there were here, and what was in that sack of theirs.

_Plundering, most like. It's all humans ever want to do, besides fucking my people over. _Theron had caught his fair share of treasure hunters and scavengers in the past, and it was always the same story: "There must be something in the forest of value! Great battles were fought here, hundreds dead! Tevinter mages, with ancient books and blades and staves, fought elves in glittering armour! There must be something buried here!"

And Theron would always nod, and say the same thing: "Perhaps. But there's nothing here of any value to you, _shem, _so get out of here before I add you to the dead armies." That usually scared them off, but if not, Theron knew how to put on a show with a dagger. And if humans broke spirit and ran away for anything, it was the thought that they might be stabbed at the end of the day that really terrified them.

Which begged the question: what had scared these _shemlen _off, and what did they find?

Beside him, Tamlen grumbled. "At the very least, we should scare them away from the clan."

At this point, Theron was willing to accept any solution from Tamlen that didn't involve killing. "Fine. I'll cover you from here."

His friend snorted but did not offer any additional comments. Silently, Tamlen edged his way out of the bush, careful not to break any twigs or disturb the leaves, keeping his bow slung across his back. It took a while, longer than it seemed to be thanks to the rapidly approaching humans, but eventually Tamlen was able to extricate himself from the undergrowth, and he soon disappeared amidst the trees, grasses, and plants of the Brecilian. One moment he was there, a tangible, physical figure in Theron's vision, and in the next he was gone, hidden behind trees and bushes and shrubs and sunlight, vanished into air or shadow.

_Neat trick. I could always find him at the Dread Wolf Hunt, however._

His bow had already been stringed well beforehand, when the humans first showed up, and now Theron only had to nock his arrow to be ready for a fight. The bow was of fine make: supple yew, with smooth curves that turned the bow into a great arch, strung along at its widest peak by a tight cord. It was, without a doubt, the most valuable and treasured thing that Theron owned. That didn't say much, as the Dalish had shit to their name.

Reaching behind his back for the quiver, Theron had time to retrieve one white-feathered arrow as the humans continued to come closer and closer. He also had time to nock the arrow, and ready his bow for firing. He had even more time to wait patiently for his friend to begin the ambush. _Damn it, Tamlen! Where the hell are you?_

On Theron's first hunt, he had seized up right before the kill. He had the bow perfectly aimed at the wolf's skull, had the string pulled back until his knuckles were white, had the wolf on his lonesome and unable to summon a pack with his dying call. But the young would-be hunter had been unable to release the arrow, and the wolf soon trotted off, back to his pack and beyond Theron's reach. He remembered the shame, the awful shame that had taken hold of his heart as he watched the wolf lazily gallop away.

That weakness had flown against the principles of _Vir Tanadahl_, the Way of Three Trees. In particular, it was a disgrace to the Way of the Arrow: fly straight and do not waver. Well, Theron had wavered in that crucial moment, he had wavered until he was dizzy. But now, things were different. Now, Theron would never hesitate before a kill, and he knew that Tamlen obeyed much the same philosophy. So, where the hell was Tamlen?

A scream shattered the brisk air of the morning, and Theron had an answer.

"Finally." Theron hissed as he pulled himself out from the bush and up to his feet. He broke plenty of branches and made quite a noise in doing so, but this was past the time for stealth. Now, it was about action. Drawing his string back to his chin, Theron grimaced and eyed the humans from the top of the rise.

It seems that he was safely ignored by the _shemlen_, as they were all too distracted by the sudden appearance of Tamlen. Squat had been the one to scream, and was now lying on his back, weakly holding his arms up against the armed Dalish. Sackman and Limp quickly made their way to Squat's side, though Theron had to question their logic in doing so. _Run, run you fools! There be Dalish in these woods!_

He had to wonder if Tamlen fit their ideas of what a Dalish elf would look like. The elf stood there proudly, his back straight and his short arms bared for combat, looking for all the world like the statue of a heroic Dalish hunter. Tamlen was lanky, and tall for an elf, with short and wavy silver hair and pleasant, if a bit wild, features. He wore the deerskin armour of the Dalish, which was not particularly tough, but very flexible compared to the traditional human plate. Upon his face were the markings of Andruil, the Goddess of the Hunt; to the humans, it would look like there was a tattoo of a tree sprouting from Tamlen's brow. But, nevertheless, Tamlen stood there, his bow straight and aimed directly towards Squat, and he looked fearsome doing so.

"It's a Dalish!" Limp cried out. _No fucking shit._

"And you three are somewhere you shouldn't be." Tamlen responded, shifting his aim towards Limp. "What are you doing here? The forest is no place for _shems._"

Rather than answer the perfectly reasonable question, Sackman seemed to prefer a fight. Tamlen had a bow and very good aim, but that aim was not directed at the strong human that could easily outmatch him physically. Sackman took a wary step forward, his grip tightening around the edges of the heavy sack and the heavier treasures within. Tamlen's skull could be thick at times, but not thick enough to prevent his brains from being crushed under the weight of the sack's payload. The battle would be over in one fell swoop.

Understandably, Theron wanted to prevent that.

He loosed the arrow from his bow, and let out a wide grin as it slammed into the ground next to Sackman's foot. The human jumped, actually jumped, away from the impact and dropped his sack in doing so. A heavy crash sounded out in the forest as the contents of the sack spilled out onto the forest grass in a cluttered heap. Silver and gold winked at Theron out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't want to let that distract him.

Drawing another arrow from his quiver, Theron quickly walked down the length of the rise. If Tamlen looked like the statue of a heroic Dalish hunter, Theron looked like the rude caricature drawn of said hunter. His brow was thick and dense, he knew, with long red hair pulled into a ponytail that stretched down to his neck. He had sharp and angry brown eyes, and they mixed well with his markings of Elgar'nan, the God of Vengeance: angry, vibrant lines that crisscrossed his face at irregular patterns.

_And Keeper Marethari gave me a strange look when I said I wanted those markings. Scares the shit out of humans, and that's good enough for me._

And lo and behold, it was true: the humans were frightened at Theron's appearance. Limp let out a strangled yell as he saw the other Dalish emerge from the side, and Squat groaned and shook his head. "Nonononono." He murmured, slowly pushing himself to his feet. "This can't be happening."

"Shut up." Theron growled, stopping just short of arm's reach with Sackman. The big brute eyed Theron angrily, his large fists clenched at his sides, but Theron kept his arrow trained upon Sackman's throat. As long as it remained there, the standstill would continue. "Stop whimpering, and answer the damn question."

After dusting himself off, Squat turned to Tamlen. "Please," he croaked in a weak voice, "we're not here to cause trouble. We're just explorers!"

"Explorers?" Tamlen managed a slight smirk upon his face. "Really? And whose pockets did you explore to find that?" He gestured with one elbow towards the contents of the sack. "One of your human nobles, perhaps? A bandit's plunder? Or maybe you robbed another Dalish clan." Theron knew that was bullshit, as Dalish clans didn't boast such treasures, but if it got them to talk, it got them to talk.

"No! No!" Squat yelled, shaking his hands and his head. "We've done nothing to the Dalish!" He turned and pointed westwards frantically, back the way they came. "We found it all in some ruins over there, hidden in a cave! I don't know what the ruins were of, but you have to believe me!"

It was Theron's turn to play disbelieving interrogator. He let out a low chuckle, and enjoyed dragging it out to watch the panic spreading on Squat's face. "You're telling me that you've found ruins in the forest? A forest I've lived in all my life and know, for a fact, that there are no such ruins?"

A period of tense silence drifted over the group. Squat had no answer in response to Theron, and Sackman continued to stare at his elven opponent with murder in his eyes. The Dalish hunters continued to wordlessly watch the humans, bows trained upon the two most likely opponents: Squat and Sackman. Finally, Limp broke the silence with a terrified yelp. "There was a demon!" He howled.

Theron and Tamlen both blinked. "A demon with terrible red eyes and spikes stabbing out from its spine!" Limp continued, his face growing paler and paler with every word. "It bites and claws and roars, and it kills you to just stand next to it!" Tamlen slowly shifted his aim from Squat to Limp as the injured man continued on. "And its blood stinks and hurts to touch your skin, and oh Maker, it's killed me! IT'S KILLED ME!"

"Quiet!" Sackman roared. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, but it managed to be loud enough to shut Limp up. Turning to Theron, Sackman nodded slowly. "Alright, you know why we were here. We'll go now. But leave the treasure alone: we found it, it's ours."

Before Theron could say, _"Why yes, that is a most sensible idea," _Tamlen cut into the conversation. "We have no use for your treasure!" The hunter almost spat the words out as he took an angry step towards Sackman, reorienting his gaze upon the offender in question. Theron, in response, stepped back, and lowered his bow slightly. "We're not a bunch of greedy thieves, unlike you _shems_!"

If this was Sackman's chance to prove a reasonable, level-headed man, he failed it miserably. Straightening out his back, the big man roared at Tamlen. "Don't you call me that, fucking knife-ears! This is our land, and you have no right living on it! Go back to your trees and leave Ferelden to us!"

"Fuck you, human!"

"Fuck you, elf!"

"Shit on your Maker! Shit on Andraste!"

"Shit on you and your fucking ears!"

Another scream tore through the chill forest like a blade.

Tamlen, Sackman, and Squat all turned to Limp as the wounded man started to scream and scream and scream, bending over and clutching his injured leg. The flesh was torn and mangled, presumably by the demon, and now the sharp point of an arrowhead was added to his pain. The arrow stabbed through the ripped skin and muscle and poked out the other end, the white feathers stained red with blood.

Theron placed another arrow on his bow in the stunned silence. "Get out of here!" He barked. When the humans failed to answer, he growled and shot the arrow. This one sailed wide over the head of Limp and slammed into the trunk of a tree far behind them. "Go! Run!"

And then they started to run, all three of them. Sackman rushed forward and hauled the sobbing Limp up onto his shoulder, outpacing Squat easily in his need to get away. Soon the three humans disappeared from view, vanishing into the Brecilian Forest, leaving only pained screams behind them. The sack was abandoned on the ground before the Dalish hunters, forgotten by its caretakers.

After watching the humans leave his sight, Theron huffed and slung his bow back onto his shoulder. He stretched his aching fingers out as he approached the scattered treasures, shaking his head. "Fucking _shemlen._" Dropping to one knee, Theron began to examine what exactly the humans had scavenged.

"Are you mad?" Tamlen suddenly howled, spinning about to face Theron with anger in his eyes. He had been watching the humans run away silently, wordlessly, but now he had plenty of words to share with his companion. "Why? Why did you do that? Why did you attack them? Are you a fucking idiot?"

"Calm down." Theron quietly stated, picking up a rusted coin gingerly between two fingers. Both sides of the coin were too worn for him to tell exactly what had been inscribed on it, but he thought that he could see the vague outline of a face, with strange letters circling around it. He frowned, and slipped it into his pocket. He could get the Keeper to examine it, or perhaps Merrill. _On second thought, that would be a horrible idea. Merrill would just accidentally eat it._

"No! I can't just calm down!" Tamlen hurried over to his side and pointed with the end of his bow in the direction of the fleeing humans. "Why did you do that? Answer me!"

Theron sighed, and glanced up to Tamlen. His friend was angry, and he couldn't fault him for that. It was a legitimate question, even if the reasoning behind Theron's actions was painfully obvious. _Remember, Theron, not everyone has access into your wonderfully twisted mind. _"Look, you and the _shem _would have killed each other. I wanted them to get away from here; I didn't want to bury them, or you. So, I shot the wounded man and scared them off."

That stopped Tamlen from his rant, but only for a moment. Indignantly, he growled at his friend. "I was not going to kill him. But I would defend myself, given the opportunity."

"Exactly. Look, just help me with this." Theron nodded at the plunder from the humans. "I want to find something that tells me where they got this from."

Tamlen was not happy with him, far from it. Theron knew the elf as well as he knew himself, and he knew that Tamlen would be angry about this for days. But his rage would come and go, would fluctuate depending on the mood, and right now Tamlen didn't want to be angry. He just wanted to get something done, something accomplished, something that didn't weigh heavily upon his conscience. What Theron offered was a convenient task for him to set his mind upon.

And so, despite the anger, Tamlen managed to sling his own bow across his shoulders and dropped down beside Theron, furrowing his brow as he examined the contents of the sack before him. "You think anything here will tell us where they found it?"

Picking up another coin, Theron grimaced. Again, too rusted to discern the markings of, too old to be of any relevance to the Dalish: in short, completely useless. "Hopefully." He tossed the coin over to Tamlen, who managed to catch it after stumbling for a moment. "A name, maybe, or a date. Anything that can point it towards old human ruins, old elven burial grounds, or old in general."

Moving on to another artefact, a bowl of some kind, Theron continued to pick through the mess, never examining any one thing for too long. The general consensus was thus: garbage, more garbage, and even more garbage. Perhaps a human scholar would find the value in this, or perhaps Hahren Paivel would, but to Theron, it was just worthless junk discarded by people long dead. Perhaps a smarter man than he could discern much from the make of the knife or the curve of the goblet or the patterns upon the horn, but Theron didn't know much in any such regard. He was hoping for words that he could understand, in the human tongue. But no such luck: everything else was just meaningless to him.

He worked like this for several minutes, endlessly picking up objects and discarding them into a rapidly growing pile, hoping for anything that he could understand. It was only when he had sorted through every single piece of trash from sack that Theron finally gave up. "This is hopeless." He announced to his now silent companion. "I can't find anything."

No answer was to be found from Tamlen, as he was too busy being distracted by the single coin that Theron had given him. He was taking the end of his hunting knife, the _Dar'Misu_,to the coin and gently scraping off the rust that had collected upon the surface. It was slow and tedious work, as Theron observed, and a waste of time in his opinion. "Look, Tamlen, if you haven't found answers yet, you won't ever. Come on, let's take this back to the camp."

"Shut up." Tamlen murmured, frowning as he plucked the last bits of age-old grime off a particular section of the coin. "You're occasionally smart, _lethallin_, but more often than not you're too dense to leave alone. Or trust with a task like this." Theron was miffed at that comment, but he chose not to respond. Instead, he let Tamlen finish his work: after all, why try to bait another insult like that?

He decided to start his inquiry once again when Tamlen's eyes widened and he pulled the coin away from his face, as if to make sure that he was seeing it correctly. "What is it?" Theron asked, leaning his head in to try to see what his friend currently saw.

"This," Tamlen began, his words faltering, "this is written elvish."

"Bullshit." Theron immediately countered. "Total bullshit." A moment's pause as Tamlen continued to gaze at the coin intently. "Let me see."

He didn't leave time for confirmation, but instead reached out and yanked the coin forcibly from Tamlen's grip. The elf immediately protested by way of grabbing for it, but Theron shoved him aside as he pulled the coin up for scrutiny. But he didn't see the same revelation that Tamlen had discovered: he just saw more nonsense engravings and unfamiliar letters carved into the silver.

Elves used to have a written language, Theron didn't doubt that. But that was long ago, back when they had armies and cities and a civilization. That was ancient history, and time had worn down the old elven culture. Humans certainly hadn't helped the process: indeed, most of elven history was now dominated by the short-lived bastards ruling over elvenkind. What little remained of their old culture did not include written word.

"I don't get it." He finally admitted, as Tamlen tried to edge in against him to get a better view of his own.

"That's because you're not looking in the right places." Leaning over, Tamlen reached out with one hand and tapped his finger lightly against the curve of one such unfamiliar letter. "Merrill showed me some old carvings dated from the time of the Dales, and I've seen this figure on them. It's only the one letter, but the resemblance is exact." He said this all in a patient tone that suggested he was speaking to someone with inferior intellect, which irritated Theron to no end. _Being someone of inferior intellect, after all._

Grumbling, Theron shook his head. "Who died and named you Keeper?" The Dalish stretched his neck over to the side, and frowned as he stared once again in the path that the humans had originally come from. An idea was slowly blossoming in his head, an idea that gripped his mind like a fever and made his heart pound with excitement. _The fame! The glory! _"They weren't exactly subtle." He started, glancing over to Tamlen. "If we leave now, we could follow their trail back to this supposed cave and the ruins within."

Even before he finished the suggestion, Tamlen violently objected. "Absolutely not!" He hissed, his eyes flashing with sudden fire. "I'm not going to risk my life combing through the woods for a place that doesn't exist."

"But we've just found evidence that it does exist!" Theron gestured to the scattered piles of treasure that now lay on the ground beside them. "And we've also found evidence that there are elvish artefacts in this ruin! We have to go! We owe it to ourselves as Dalish to go!"

Tamlen sighed, and placed a hand to his forehead. _He can't argue with that, no true Dalish can. It's what we live for, beyond pissing off the humans. Finding the rest of our lost lore and history and culture, one tarnished coin at a time. _"And this so-called demon that exists in these supposed ruins? Do we have evidence for that as well, or will it be considered a surprise if it attacks us?"

"Fuck the demon!" Theron growled, and reached over to Tamlen. He placed two hands on either cheek and pulled his friend's face in close, locking his own intent gaze with Tamlen's. "Think of what we can find! Think of the clan's gratitude!" Lowering his tone to a husky growl, he grinned and rubbed his hands against Tamlen's cheeks. "Think of what it would be like to be clan heroes."

He could already tell that Tamlen had relented by the time that the elf sighed and relaxed into his touch, closing his eyes and letting out a pleased murmur. He could already tell that Tamlen had relented by the time they pressed their lips together, dry and cracked, but still eager and willing for the other. He could already tell that Tamlen had relented by the time that his hands were clawing at Theron's neck, pulling and pushing against his tanned skin, pressing their mouths firmly together.

But it still felt fantastic to know that he had won.

"I promise," Theron began when their lips finally parted, his hot breath intermixing with Tamlen's, "you won't regret this."

"I better not." His friend responded instantly, and then they were kissing and pushing up against each other again, just like that.

No more words were shared, at that point.

The trip was shorter than expected and also more difficult than expected.

Shorter in the fact that Theron was expecting a long distance journey across half of the Brecilian Forest to reach these ruins, when in reality it only took a few hours. The cave's actual location puzzled him a great deal: the Sabrae clan had only taken up residence in this part of the Brecilian two years ago, but Theron felt that he had an expert opinion on the local wilds surrounding his home. To have this place, a cave filled with ruins and ancient treasures, so close to his home and yet be so unknown to him before this day made him uneasy. He wouldn't admit it, of course, but the feeling was there.

And the journey was more difficult in the fact that the sack, once filled with the artefacts, was fucking heavy. He had assumed that Sackman was all looks without any actual strength to back it up, but to carry the sack for so long unaided made him stronger than Theron would care to admit. Theron himself had to trade the burden with Tamlen at regular intervals to keep his grip strong and his blood flowing. _Fucking hell, it's like plundering an entire culture's worth of ancient treasures was actually tiresome. _

The trip was not made any easier with Tamlen's company. Despite their rather heated behaviour at the very beginning of the march, actually crossing the distance involved silent walking, quiet contemplation, and grunts of exertion as they made their way through the Brecilian Forest. It was an uncharitable place at the best of times, and neither felt like conversation as they neared their destination.

It was enough time for Tamlen to get his doubts, once again. "I still think we should have returned to the clan and gotten more hunters." He announced for the umpteenth time, leading the way with a high head and chin, surveying the area casually, only the slight hint of wariness in his stance.

"Yes, yes. First we should actually see if there's anything to worry about before we start worrying." Theron shouted back, his face red from the strain of bearing the load against his shoulders. He had his own trepidations about the place, to be sure, and they only got stronger the more time wore on. But he had planned this brilliant venture in the first place, and if he showed weakness now, then everything was lost.

"I'm just saying…" Tamlen began, before becoming inexplicably silenced by the sight before him. They had been heading down a significant slope for a while now, trees branching off above them on either side, and Theron was anxious to see what the hold-up was. He hurried over to Tamlen's side, ignoring the pain his body was screaming out at him in return, and was rewarded for his efforts with his first glimpse of the cave.

Well, glimpse was entirely the wrong word. It was very difficult to miss this cave, as large and as cavernous as it was. "By the Creators," he murmured, "how have we missed this?"

Cave was entirely the wrong word, as well, to describe this. A hole in the very core of the earth would be more appropriate, if missing the mark a bit. The forest floor seemed to simply part before his eyes, breaking in two before the mighty gaping wound in the ground that reeked of darkness and filth. The slope that they were heading down stretched onwards into a great circular arch of black, disappearing into the shadows as if it no longer existed once inside the cave. He wondered, briefly, how this had formed in the first place. Certainly, this was no natural formation: someone must have carved this for their own usage.

_But who? Dwarves live underground, not humans. Certainly not elves._

But what really struck Theron was how dark it was, how foul the stench that emanated from it was, how cold the air was that drifted out from the cave. Even standing here, he could barely see inside the cavern, barely stand being downwind of that odour, barely resist the freezing chill that crept up his spine. It was all black and shadow, but there was nothing else. No movement, no sounds, no life. Existence stopped just short of entering the cave. It was the kind of place that made him think of nightmares and night terrors, of things told of in song but never really understood until you faced it in the flesh.

_Oh, Tamlen's right. We should go back. We should go back. We really, really should go back._

Tamlen shared that notion. "I don't think this is a place we want to go, Theron." He quietly said, reaching down his side for his _Dar'Misu. _"It's… evil."

Theron's own better judgement agreed whole-heartedly with that comment. _Evil, and wretched, and horrid, and will leave you a great deal uglier than when you first entered. _His own instincts seemed to scream out against this place, warned him against even taking a single step within that dark mass. _To do so would be to lose yourself._

But he couldn't just say that to Tamlen. A promise had been made, even if it was one made in haste, and Theron had to give Tamlen back something. He loved the man, loved the man as a friend and as a lover, and while he would never say as much to his face, he wanted to show Tamlen his appreciation in some way. Glory, honour, and renown amongst the Dalish people would be a good first step in that direction. _Besides, Tamlen loves that ancient stuff more than I do, perhaps more than most people in the clan._

And it wasn't like Theron would not benefit himself from this endeavour. He knew that he was the best hunter in the Sabrae clan, knew it in his bones and heart. All it took was a deed like this, a grand and bold deed that was beneficial to the whole clan, and it would no longer be opinion: it would be fact. Everyone would know the fact, and they would shout it from the treetops: _"Theron Mahariel! Best hunter in the Sabrae clan! Greatest hunter in all of the Dalish clans!"_

And what was the harm in that?

Turning over to Tamlen, Theron offered him a grin. "Don't worry _lethallin. _I'll protect you from all the evil here." He heaved the sack off his shoulders and hurled it over to Tamlen, who could only barely sheathe his knife and catch it in time. "What's the worst that could happen when I am around?"

"Everything."

"Shut up."

And together, they descended into the darkness.


	4. Aedan

(Author's Note: Amusingly, the internet seems to have failed me when it came time for pulling up a reference picture of Ser Temmerly. I had no Awakening saves left after a great old character deletion sweep a few weeks ago, and so I was forced to sit through an entire Awakening playthrough on YouTube to find the big guy. And, in the end, it turned out that the person running the playthrough neglected to do the quest that featured Ser Temmerly, thus forcing me to rely upon my own shaky memory.)

Aedan

He woke to the bedroom door slamming open.

The slamming of the door might not have sounded impressive to other people, but to Aedan Cousland, it may as well have been a battering ram: the impact of wood bashing against stone reverberated throughout his head, giving him cause to wince and moan and complain.

"My lord," the voice of Ser Gilmore announced, "you are needed at the main gates. The host from Amaranthine approaches."

_Gilmore? It can't be Gilmore, I can't see him. Where'd your voice get off to, Gilmore? _For all Aedan saw was a blurry shadow in the doorway, one arm outstretched to hold the large wooden door open, and the other tight around the collar of some… thing that stayed close to the ground. It too was a large, indistinct shadow, but there were some differences: it apparently had a collar. And it did not walk like a man. _Gilmore, is that you? _

Rising partway from his fur sheets, Aedan blinked furiously at the intruder in order to clear and focus his vision. He couldn't just obey the man's commands and get straight out of bed: it really was too early for that, and Aedan really had no reason to do anything that he said. Unless the orders came from Teryn Bryce Cousland, then Aedan didn't have to follow them. Besides, he was stark naked underneath his sheets.

The shadow with the voice of Ser Gilmore, who was starting to resemble Ser Gilmore at a passing distance, inclined his head towards the Cousland. "Are you going to rouse yourself from your bed, milord, or must I rely upon others to do that for you?" In response to this, the hideous thing that walked on all fours let out a loud and boisterous bark.

Aedan groaned and put a feeble hand up to his temples. "Stop!" He weakly called, but the terrible shadow simply barked once again, its foul breath coming in heavy pants. The thing radiated filth and darkness and death and wet dog, and he wanted it out of his bedroom immediately. Turning over to the shadow, Aedan groggily shook his head and moaned. "I will get up, ser." He laid his head back down upon his pillow, and drew the fur sheet over his uncovered torso. "In time."

The shadow that was Ser Gilmore sighed. "Very well. Sic him, Dog," He commanded, releasing the collar and taking a step back.

And the thing that was named Dog barked once more and leapt onto the bed, baring razor sharp fangs and claws that ripped open his sheets and cut his legs to bloody strips. The thing scrambled up across his chest towards his face, splitting bone and skin and muscle with every step. Aedan howled in pain and tried to push the beast away with both hands, but it opened its mouth and swallowed his arms whole, biting down at the shoulders and ripping the limbs in two. After taking but a brief moment to digest the arms, the thing opened its big, slavering mouth, filled to the brim with sharp teeth that reeked of foul saliva, and bit Aedan's face off. The skin tore easily, like parchment, exposing his raw muscles to the unforgiving elements. But soon even his muscles went into the thing's belly, followed by bone and the bed itself. Soon, everything that ever remained of Aedan Cousland was swallowed up by that hungry monster that Ser Gilmore had brought. A fitting end, some would say.

_Oh, I wish. Then I wouldn't have to go and talk with Rendon fucking Howe._

"Damn it, Gilmore!" Aedan shouted, fighting to say even that, thanks to Dog. The stupid hound was sitting on his chest, one massive paw upon his shoulder, licking away at his face with his stinking tongue. Lick, lick, lick, endlessly and repeatedly, until Aedan's face was slick with saliva and his hair reeked of bad breath.

Ser Gilmore continued to stand in the doorway through all of this, smirking as he watched his lord's son fall prey to a dog. Eventually, though, he seemed to grow tired of this sick sport, and bowed his head to the Cousland. "Your lord father and mother request your presence at the main gate, sooner rather than later. That is, if it doesn't inconvenience your lordship." He saluted smartly and then marched down the corridor, disappearing from view.

"You can bet it fucking inconveniences me!" Aedan howled after the knight, but there was no use: Gilmore didn't pay him any heed, and no one else was bound to come to his rescue. Chances were, the majority of the household was at the main gate, watching the arrival of Arl Howe and his family, his knights, his soldiers, and his banns. It would be quite a momentous occasion, but Aedan personally considered the arrival of a flea more important than a Howe's arrival. _Stupid weasel-nosed bastards. _

But there was nothing for it. Father had requested his presence, and when Bryce Cousland asks for something, he usually gets it. If Aedan didn't show up now, he would never hear the end of it from his father and his lectures, or from his mother and her scolding. And Aedan would rather be killed by his own dog than sit through another lecture or another scolding, especially when the words of the last one were still ringing in his ears.

_I'm a disappointment to Highever and the Cousland name, but Father still wants to place me on a pedestal and gloat about my accomplishments. _

Aedan sighed and placed a firm hand upon Dog's muzzle. "Alright boy, that's enough. Stand down." The hound inclined his head quizzically at him, but did not argue, thankfully. Dog hopped off the bed neatly and curled up into a ball at the foot of it, giving Aedan some much needed breathing room.

It was cold in the room, he realized. Far colder than Highever had any right to be. Glancing down, Aedan could guess at the reason: despite his efforts, in the end he had wound up stark naked. Stupid Dog had kicked off his blankets, leaving him at the mercy of the brisk morning air.

Best start with some breeches, then. He pushed himself up off the bed and hobbled over to his bedroom armoire, wincing as the cold stone chilled the bottoms of his feet. Highever was closer to the warm north than anything else in Ferelden, but it was still subject to cold winters and cold nights. And in Castle Cousland, the mighty fortress at the heart of the territory, warm air was hard to find. _Other than Dog's breath, that is._

Gingerly, Aedan hopped into a pair of fine breeches and pulled them up to his waist, lacing them nimbly despite the chill. _Look at that, I can dress myself. I wonder if Arl Howe can say the same. _Pulling a white tunic over top of his torso, Aedan comfortably grunted. It immediately felt warmer in the bedroom than it had previously, and he felt marginally more confident about meeting the Amaranthine host.

And then he got a look at himself while washing his hands and face in the water basin.

_Oh Maker, Mother will kill me. _The very first thing that was noticeable about his dishevelled appearance was the unruly tangle of long brown hair upon his head, with thin strands sticking out in every direction. Aedan's hair was a beast to maintain, and more often that not it resisted his attempts to control it, completely and utterly. If Aedan's hair answered to anyone, he had not yet met the person or prayed to the god. Frowning, Aedan quickly raised his hands up to his forehead and tried to ease his hair back into a somewhat decent looking mane. It seemed to work, but only barely.

Unfortunately, that was not the only problem with his appearance. His bloodshot eyes and the dark bags underneath them seemed to suggest a nightly habit that would, of course, bring shame upon the Cousland name, although Aedan was unsure about what exactly Mother would suggest it was. _Will it be whoring, this time, or drinking? I've done naught of either, but you'll accuse me all the same. _Oh well, there was nothing to be done about that. His eyes and the bags underneath would compliment Lady Howe's bags. _Or so I've heard._

And, finally, there was his nose to consider. It was there, on his face like everyone else, but wrenched sickeningly off to the side, crusted blood forming around the nostrils and cracking over his lips. It had been broken the night before, though the exact specifics of the incident eluded Aedan for the moment. In fact, he could barely remember the previous evening at all: just the vague memory of a fight and the impact of fists hitting his sides. If he examined his body in full detail, he would probably find bruises adorning the skin, but luckily nothing showed above the neck. Aedan leaned his face in close to the water basin and did his best to wash away the blood.

After making himself presentable, but only just, Aedan slipped on some boots and threw a fur cloak over his right shoulder that extended down to his thigh. It was fashionable and warmed him to a small degree, which was more than he could hope for at this point. He headed out the open door and into the corridor, followed obediently at his heels by the now-attentive Dog.

Fergus had once asked him why he hadn't named Dog anything more impressive, like Killer or Beast or Ghost. Aldous, the historian at Castle Cousland, had advised him on several legendary names for the hound, such as Dane or Hohaku. "If you want him to be special, boy, then name him something special," the old sage had said. "A dog named Dog won't be remembered in the tales."

That was just fine, as far as Aedan was concerned. He wasn't going to go on and get ballads sung of his achievements, why should Dog get a song? At any rate, he had christened the hound "Dog" as a younger boy, and the name had stuck from that point on. Why call him anything else, when that was his name from the very beginning? _Mother was always plenty happy with the name. "Aedan, fetch that dog from the larder and get it to stop harassing Nan!" "Aedan, stop that dog from ruining my salon!"_

Dog seemed happy with the title, but then again, he was always happy. Mabari hounds were preferably suited for war, and indeed, that was Dog's official bearing within Castle Cousland. He was a war dog, and slept with the other war dogs in the kennel, and didn't ostensibly get any special treatment. But, upon seeing that stupid blank look in his eyes and the way his tongue lolled about in his mouth, you wouldn't think Dog a killer of any sort. He was too thick and too dense and too loveable to kill even a pesky fly, and Aedan loved the dog for it.

He was certainly built for killing, however. Mabari hounds, rumoured to be products of magical experimentation, were giants compared to other dogs. Dog was huge, half the size of Aedan when he was on all fours, with thick burly legs and sturdy haunches. His face was bullish, with scrunched up features and beady eyes that looked fearsome in combat, but looked slow at all other times. His fur was short and scruffy, and coloured muddy brown in the typical Ferelden fashion.

He was probably the most impressive thing that Aedan could attribute to his name, and the most impressive part of Aedan's entrance into the courtyard.

Built in the Divine Age, more than eight hundred years ago, Castle Highever was sturdy as a rock and almost impossible to siege, or so the legends claim. When the barbarians massed at the gate, the proud then-ruling family Elstan fought them off from the battlements with arrows and stones. When the Couslands took control and rebelled against the reigning Howes of that time, it was the fortress that they renamed after themselves that wore down the armies of Amaranthine and allowed the Cousland army to maintain independence from the expanding bannorn. When werewolves terrorized the countryside, it was Castle Cousland that protected the people of Highever from the bestial monsters.

_I'd expect any stone wall would do against werewolves, though. They don't climb, after all. _

Part of that was due to the castle's ingenious construction. Situated on a high hill overlooking the actual town of Highever, with steep slopes in every direction and a thin road travelling up the eastern side of the hill, Castle Cousland did not allow much room for besieging armies. It had to be assaulted from the base of the hill, and should a foothold be gained into the defences, potential invaders would have to make the long slog up to reach their destination, opening them up for sallies and arrow fire from the walls. In addition, the actual stronghold of the castle, the main hall, was located at the very center of the fortress. This meant that there were no weak spots on the wall to bombard with siege weapons: any attackers looking to take the keep had to fight through the defences on the defender's terms.

_Aldous once told me that Castle Cousland has only been breached from the inside, from treachery and betrayal, but never from an outright attack. It was a lesson about the dangers of men and the weapons that they use. I think, anyway: I had dozed off a minute into the lecture._

Another aspect of the design was the main gate of the castle. Rather than have a large metal portcullis that was difficult for an enemy to breach, Castle Cousland opted for simple wooden doors barred from the inside against invaders. These doors were much easier to destroy than an iron portcullis gate, but the gateway was thin and far narrower than it would have been with the portcullis. This allowed less room for attackers standing side-by-side, and thus meant that fewer attackers could get inside the castle at any particular time, making the smaller mobs easier to dispatch than a large horde.

A useful feature for wartime, perhaps, but it also made getting into the castle with a large host a pain in the ass. Arl Howe had to take his time in moving his soldiers, knights, and guardsmen into the castle, and this allowed Aedan to make it just in time for the arl's own arrival.

Glittering men in silver armour seated atop noble chargers paced endlessly about the courtyard, their swords sheathed and their lances lowered, boasting for all the world of the wealth and power of Amaranthine. They were the knights of the arling, each of them carrying a different sigil on their arms: a brave river trout here, a bright purple flower there. A glowing thunderbolt atop a man's iron shield, a clenched fist emblazoned on another's cloak. With so many different images and signs to take in, Aedan found it difficult to find the fierce bear of Amaranthine in the shiny procession. _Father does it differently: always remember to whom you owe your allegiance first, and then display your own heraldry second. _

There were about twenty foreign knights in the courtyard, but more were coming by the minute. It seemed like an endless flow of men were coming through the open doors, men all adorned in the shimmering colors of the rainbow, from glorious gold to sombre black, from stark silver to vibrant greens. In contrast, the soldiers of Castle Cousland seemed much more one note and uniform: they wore hard iron and trustworthy steel, but little else. And with each and every man sworn into the service of Highever, you would find the open wreath of the Couslands stretching out across their shield's face. _Not as shiny or as pretty as their Amaranthine knights, but good in a fight. Dependable, resourceful… you'd be hard pressed to beat them in single combat._

Suddenly, an arm reached around Aedan's back and clasped his right shoulder tightly. Aedan winced as he was pulled against the side of Fergus Cousland, winced as his brother grinned at him from ear to ear. "Aedan!" He practically shouted. "Thank the Maker that you look like shit. I wouldn't have been able to find you otherwise."

_You wouldn't be saying that if Father or Mother or your wife or your son were standing here, next to us. But they aren't, so feel free to mock me. _Aedan often thought sourly of his brother, but could never resist a smile of his own when confronted with Fergus Cousland face to face. Partly because it would appease Fergus and stop him from badgering Aedan just like their dear old Mother, but also partly because he enjoyed Fergus's company. "I wanted you, for once, to look better by comparison."

Chuckling, Fergus shook his head. "Strong words! I wonder if we can pass Dog off as you for the evening. He'd be more handsome and more polite than you ever would be." Dog inclined his head to the side, as if perplexed by the suggestion, and then returned to stupidly wagging his tongue at the Couslands.

"Be my guest." Aedan grumbled as his brother led him over to the rest of the family. "Saves me from seeing good old Arl Howe again."

The Cousland family was gathered at the far end of the courtyard, as was befitting the heads of the household. Fergus's wife, Oriana, and their son Oren were stationed on the left side of the arrangement. Upon seeing them, Fergus was quick to abandon Aedan. "Good luck." His brother murmured before letting go of him and approaching his wife, greeting her with a generous kiss upon the mouth. Oren wrinkled his nose at this behaviour, and Aedan found himself mirroring the action, Dog, of course, following suit.

If one was asked to point out the heirs of the Cousland legacy in a crowd, one would most likely pick Fergus and Oriana. He bore a noble and confident bearing and was ruggedly attractive; she was all delicate beauty and humble grace. He had shortly cut raven hair and a chin full of stubble; she had short brown hair left hanging around her eyes, with thick and full lips. He dressed in fine furs and leather jerkins; she dressed in Orlesian gowns and handmade bodices. He was the perfect Ferelden man; she was the perfect foreign wife for a Ferelden man.

If anything, Aedan bore more of a resemblance to Oren than Fergus, and not just appearance wise. He was too young for anyone to truly tell, but all signs pointed towards Oren not inheriting his father's good looks. He had too thick a brow, was too gangly a boy, and was too dense to be a proper noble grandson. He liked to play in the stables and play with stable boys and mock stable girls, which had once been Aedan's favourite pastime. _Ah, but who knows? Eventually the boy will shape up, no doubt thanks to his powerful and handsome lord father. The Couslands will always have a worthy heir, no matter what they have to do to create one._

"Aedan, come here." Eleanor Cousland's soft and deceiving voice drifted over to him, a voice that was capable of mighty shouts and tremendous rages, and he could only let out a sigh. He had tried to prolong it for as long as possible, but there was no escaping it now. He had to face the lord and lady of Highever, who also happened to be his parents.

While Fergus and Oriana had distinct differences that complemented the other, Bryce and Eleanor seemed to be cut from the same cloth. A hard-faced man and a hard-faced woman, brought together by their once bold and passionate romance, united by their love of family and their capacity to rule. Grey-haired, grey-faced, with cold eyes and noble looks, the Teryn and Teryna had been ruling peacefully for thirty years, which was no fluke. Bryce had strength, strategy, and military prowess backing him up, while Eleanor bore the political cunning and charm necessary to destroy any potential threats before they could arise. _And if that doesn't work, she'll just take Father's mace and bash her opponent's head in. _Together, they made a powerful alliance.

The question being, what did Aedan have to his name?

Upon getting a closer look at his face, Eleanor let out an aggravated sigh. "Oh, what have you done now?" Reaching out with one withered hand, she somehow managed to tightly get a grip upon his chin. She inspected him with a critical eye. "Ser Gilmore didn't mention this."

"I would hope not." Aedan growled, glancing away in either direction. Ser Gilmore was intelligent, far more intelligent than Aedan would ever admit, and would know better than to stay in his close proximity once the Teryna got her hands upon him. He recalled seeing Ser Gilmore standing in another part of the courtyard, eyeing the Amaranthine knights with an icy disposition. Was there a hint of envy in his gaze, or did Gilmore only regard his fellow knights as a challenge and nothing more? Regardless, Aedan would have given anything to switch places with the Highever knight. He would have switched places with just about anyone right now, had the offer been made.

Eleanor gave a frustrated little noise as she tilted Aedan's head back. "Look at all this blood! Didn't you at least wash your hands on your way here?" Before he got a chance to get a word in edgewise, his mother continued on her tirade. "You knew we had noble guests coming, you knew perfectly well, and yet you still couldn't resist getting into a fight!"

"Mother, I was not fighting. I slipped on a loose stone during the night and bashed my face agai-" Eleanor pinched the end of his twisted nose with her free hand, effectively silencing him as he grit his teeth in pain.

"Don't try to lie to me, Aedan. I can smell a Cousland lie." She released her iron grip upon his chin, and glanced over to Fergus and his wife. The two had finally stopped exchanging saliva and were now content to stand side by side, albeit with their arms firmly wrapped around the other's waist. _What will she say now, my dear Mother? "Aedan, it's time you got yourself an honest and decent wife." "Aedan, you should strive to be more like your older brother."_

Instead Eleanor smiled, which was surprising. A wistful, sad little smile that spoke more of resignation, shame, and disappointment more than anything else, but it was a smile nonetheless. "At least you're a better liar than Fergus. And your father. By the Maker, was he awful at coming up with excuses." Stepping back, Eleanor turned her head over to Bryce and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "What did you come up with, when you tried to explain away your little hunting trip in Amaranthine? I can't remember."

Bryce Cousland, to his credit, did not run away shrieking from his lady wife. It's what Aedan would have done, in his father's circumstances. But Bryce managed to muster a tired, exhausted smile. It was genuine, though. Honest. His attention was fixed upon the newcomers heading through the gate, but he spared a brief glance towards his wife. "I recall that the city was being attacked by a dragon and Rendon urgently needed my assistance." Turning to Aedan, Bryce shrugged and gave his son a mischievous little grin. "Turns out the dragon was his wife, and I assisted by hunting bears with him."

Despite himself, Aedan managed to laugh at his father's comment. A small and insignificant laugh, emerging as a slight, "Heh," from the back of his throat, but he laughed all the same. He often didn't remember his father's jokes or his father's smiles when Bryce Cousland was off breaking bread with the nobles and overseeing the locals. All he remembered were the grimaces, the glares, and the cold commands. _I wonder if there's a reason for that. _But Aedan managed to laugh, despite all of this.

Apparently an ill-timed laugh, as Bryce suddenly lost all mirth in his expression and gripped his son's shoulder. "Not now, pup." The Teryn was staring straight ahead, his focus once again upon the Amaranthine host, and Aedan could only groan inwardly. _Oh shit, Arl Howe is here. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to hide. _Into the breach, then. _Reluctantly, he turned about and faced the incoming nobles.

"Bryce." A gruff voice called out, cutting through the mindless noise of hooves padding against stone that echoed through the courtyard. "Good to see you again."

It was Bann Loren, of Little Hill. Thank the Maker.

Aedan breathed a sigh of relief and smiled as the bann led his hackney horse through the open gates, over the stone ground, and towards the Cousland family. The horse swayed and rocked about with every step, and Loren's lips moved wordlessly to accompany the motion, no doubt some vulgar curse that he didn't want to utter in front of his noble hosts. It was Loren's style to curse and swear along the walk towards the Couslands, a style that Aedan could whole-heartedly agreed with.

Bann Loren was not a figurehead in Ferelden, was not a big freeholder or leader or warrior. Indeed, he was perhaps more suited to the bannorn of Little Hill than anyone else in Ferelden: such a small and inconsequential land deserved a small and inconsequential lord. South of West Hill, a massive fortress west of Highever, Little Hill paled in comparison to its larger and more prosperous neighbours. Once, it had not always been so: Little Hill once boasted abundant farmland and rewarding trade from both the Coastlands and the Bannorn. However, in the years of the Orlesian occupation, Little Hill had been ransacked for its abundant farmland time and time again, finally being put to the torch under the orders of the now dead King Meghren. Trade slowed to a crawl, and Little Hill began its torturous and slow death, a death that was still happening to this very day. It had become a black and inhospitable land, with only a few ragged settlements formed upon the treacherous and disagreeable soil.

And Aedan was still very unsure on what, exactly, Loren had done to deserve this fate. He wasn't a very good warrior, but he was no fool. There was some talk that Loren had fought in the rebellion at White River, a battle that Bryce Cousland and Rendon Howe had participated in, a battle that was now remembered as an infamous defeat. It was said that much of the shame of that defeat could be heaped squarely at Loren's feet, even though the man had not commanded the Ferelden soldiers into battle. Aedan's father did not speak of it, and Bann Loren certainly wasn't forthcoming with the information.

His extraordinarily dismal plight and legendary defeat were not the only things remarkable about Bann Loren, however. Despite his scarce land and coin, Loren had managed to worm his way into every social circle in the Bannorn and Coastlands, a mystery to those involved. He showed up at every festival, feast, salon, or military gathering, and nobody protested his presence. Nobody requested it in the first place, but that didn't seem to matter to Loren. He just came, listened, gave solid advice, and then left in the morn for the next destination. He spent more time on the road than in his bannorn, which Aedan could hardly blame him for. Who wanted to spend time in a shithole like Little Hill?

The strain of constant travel did not seem to affect Loren, as it would turn others thin and worn and ragged and thin. A large man with balding silver hair and a heavily wrinkled face, the bann still managed to retain a plump girth that was clearly visible underneath his red tunic. He looked more like a farmer than he did a noble, and the cheap hackney horse suited his appearance well, despite his apparent misgivings about the bloody thing.

His son, Dairren, who trotted along behind his father dutifully, seemed to deserve the appellation of noble more than Loren did. A tall and lean boy, about Aedan's age, Dairren bore surprisingly pleasant features, a wonder given whom his sires were. Parted auburn hair, a soft face, two beautiful blue eyes, Aedan was willing to bet all of Highever that Dairren was a bastard. Nobody that handsome could be squeezed out the legs of Lady Landra.

Groaning, Loren eased himself off his saddle and onto the stone floor, shaking his legs as he did so. "Fucking horse." Aedan could distinctly hear the mutter; try as Loren might to keep it quiet. "Fucking saddle." Upon getting settled back on the tangible ground underneath his feet, Bann Loren approached Bryce and offered an impressive bow, his fat tumbling out from his belt and dropping down. "Your Grace."

Bryce nodded at the display of respect, and patted Loren upon the arm. "That's quite alright, Loren, I wouldn't want you to snap in half now." His face red, with embarrassment or exhaustion, Loren nodded back and pulled himself back up to his full height. Aedan's attention was fixated pointedly upon the man's great lump of flesh that hung free from his belly, a lump that had been presumably tucked in during his approach to Highever.

Oren frowned and tugged on his mother's sleeve. "Why is he so big? Is there a pillow under his tunic?"

Aedan, Fergus, and Dairren couldn't resist a slight laugh at that. The three of them broke in unison, chuckling guiltily behind tight smiles. The rest of the party became deathly silent. Bann Loren stood there, staring at the boy, his emotions hidden underneath his quiet face. Oren continued to pull at his mother's arm, oblivious to the offence that his statement had caused.

But finally, there was a crack in Loren's defences. His mouth curved upwards, and he glanced over to Bryce. "Well, at least he has the decency to say it." He grinned, and started laughing all on his own, a barking laugh that reminded Aedan more of Dog than anything else. The big bann dropped to a knee before Oren, and leaned over to ruffle his hair. "Aye, a pillow is underneath my tunic. A pillow of deer and duck, my boy. A pillow of fat."

Fergus had a wicked smile upon his face. "And do you sleep on it, Loren? Do you just lean forward and bury your face into your stomach when the night comes?"

"Fergus!" Eleanor and Oriana cried.

"All the time." Dairren declared, his eyes twinkling.

Aedan would have paid more attention to the exchange, but his focus was drawn elsewhere when he heard the rattling of a wheel against the stone. Turning his head slightly, his eyes widened as he saw the covered wagon come bustling through the gates. Led by two large draft horses and a grime-covered driver, the wagon veered uncertainly about the courtyard, causing a few Amaranthine knights to curse and dart out of its path. Finally it shambled before the Couslands and came to a hasty stop, and no sooner had the wheels stopping spinning did the door to the wagon burst open.

All the relief that Aedan had felt over Bann Loren's arrival was swiftly replaced by horror as he finally wrapped his mind over the implications of said arrival. _Oh no. Not her, not her, it can't be her, it mustn't be her, it shouldn't be her! That bitch, that crone, that hag! _He wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to run and hide. Not only did he have to face Arl Howe today, but he also had to contend with the good Lady Landra. _Ser Gilmore, you will die a painful and bloody death for waking me up today._

Lady Landra, the Big Teat of Little Hill, pushed herself through the open door, a great smile across her face, and slowly turned her gaze towards the Cousland family. To Aedan's eternal disappointment, Lady Landra was more homely than comely, despite her best efforts. Her face was painted white and her scent altered by Orlesian methods, but the paint was cracking and she still smelled awful, despite the perfume. Her lengthy gray hair was knotted and matted, her face was that of an old and dying cow, and her tits were shrivelled up like old fruits thanks to her age. The name, Big Teat, was a name that Aedan had heard in taverns and places of ill repute, and was a name meant more in jest than in earnest. _Perhaps it once was true, back when Landra had been fucking half of Ferelden, but now that it's the other half's turn, she's all wrinkled and ugly and less desirable compared to fair Orlesians and wild Antivans. Almost tragic, really._

Upon spotting Teryna Eleanor, Landra's eyes shot up with excitement. "Ellie!" The woman almost jumped out of the wagon, her rich skirts swaying about gracefully in the wind, the most graceful thing about her. Aedan had never once understood the friendship that his mother bore with this withered… thing, and he knew that he never would. It was a mystery, a mystery best left unsolved.

As Lady Landra left the wagon for her friend, another woman soon emerged from the shadowy interior and into the pale light of the Highever sun. This one was far more appealing to Aedan: a young elven woman, with rosy cheeks, pointed ears and short golden hair. She was dressed simply and plainly, but Aedan was just glad to see someone with a rounded bosom after watching Landra's shrunken breast sway in the breeze. Her lovely green eyes met his after his moment's perusal, and a shy smile crossed her features. _A maid,_ he decided, _but far more beautiful than Lady Landra. _

Landra lunged forward and wrapped her thin arms about Eleanor tightly, the Teryna awkwardly smiling and returning the gesture with less enthusiasm. In a low voice, Aedan could just barely hear his mother hiss at her old friend. "Are you drunk?" Landra could only softly titter at the question, and she pushed herself out of Eleanor's arms a moment later.

And then she glanced over at Aedan, and a wide grin crossed her features.

_Oh Maker, protect me._

"And there's your handsome son, Ellie!" Landra crossed over to him, her piggy eyes hungrily digesting his features. Her breath didn't reek of alcohol, but then again, it always reeked. Perhaps the smell was just masked underneath the odour of hideousness. "Oh!" She cried, inclining her head to the side. "What's happened to his nose?"

"I smelled you coming." Aedan jested.

The shock that was on Eleanor's face soon dissolved into anger, pure fury, and she reached out for her son. But Landra only laughed wildly, and shook her head from side to side. "What a funny boy he is, Ellie. What a clever tongue! You must put it to better use than mocking your guests!"

Aedan's skin crawled with the idea of putting his tongue to better use where Lady Landra was concerned, but he tried to put on a smile. This was not the first time that Landra had thrown herself at him: on his sixteenth nameday, she had attempted to slip his hand up her skirts. _"Make yourself a man, a big strong virile man." _She was drunk most times that she reached for his cock, and he was never drunk enough to let her hand remain there. And so their relationship continued, a relationship that Teryna Eleanor either didn't notice or didn't want to notice.

"That would be a wonderful idea, Landra, if my son wished to do anything with his time." The fury was now gone, cooled and tempered into simple steel glares that Aedan received from his loving mother. "He'd much rather spend his time getting into fights and embarrassing me in front of my friends."  
>He gave the Teryna a cold smile of his own in return, and nodded to Lady Landra. "Well, my mother does have the right of things."<p>

"And too bad!" Landra giggled, her mouth flapping open as if to say yet more to drastically ruin Aedan's morning.

And, of course, that was when Arl Howe entered the castle.

A respectful silence seemed to gather around the courtyard at his approach, only the brave and daring summoning the courage to whisper eagerly towards their friends. Bryce stepped forward with a tight smile upon his face, though for what earthly reasons Aedan could not possibly guess at. The Couslands and Howes, as far as history went, had always been, at worst, enemies and, at best, rivals. Once, Amaranthine had ruled over Highever and the Couslands had been nothing more than soldiers, sworn into the service of the Howe's cousins, the Elstans. When the Couslands fought for Highever's independence, they had been fighting against the Howes, and ended up gaining much of the family's former lands. Rendon's father, Tarleton Howe, had opposed the Couslands and the rebels during the Orlesian occupation, and was hanged for his troubles. But yet it seemed that Bryce and Rendon were determined to mend centuries of bad blood in a single lifespan. _Don't understand why. We're better off as enemies._

Arl Howe was seated atop a glorious palfrey, a muscular and lean white horse that shamed Loren's hackney and Bryce's own destrier. His armour shamed the knights of Amaranthine: it was a simple set of chainmail, not as large or as cumbersome as the heavy plate that his knights wore, but it glittered prettily in the morning sun, and Aedan heard Fergus draw a surprised breath in upon getting a good look at the armour. _Silverite. Valued for its strength and its beauty. What Fergus wouldn't do to ride into battle dressed like that. _It was only fitting that Arl Howe was the most well-equipped, well-off noble in Ferelden. His money was his only valuable trait.

It was often joked that a weasel be more appropriate for the flag of Amaranthine than a bear, and Rendon Howe seemed to personify this jibe. A reedy man with cropped steely hair and brown eyes, the Howe's face seemed to extend forward, his long nose and angular features resembling several choice animals, any number of them being hilarious. He had been compared to a bird of prey, a snake, a weasel, two weasels mating; Howe was associated with many jokes and insults within the kingdom of Ferelden. And yet, his power and wealth was felt by all.

_I believe that it's less his own capabilities responsible for the wealth and more for the fact that his mother squat him out on Amaranthine, of all places. It would take a fool to remain poor on such a wealth of gold and silver._

Rendon was accompanied by another one of his knights, though the man would certainly have stood out all on his own in a crowd. Clad in heavy bronze armour atop a massive black charger, the knight was huge, easily a head taller than Aedan and twice as bulky. Beside him, Arl Howe seemed positively shrunken and withered, despite having power over this common knight. Aedan couldn't resist a frown upon seeing the man, his gaze drawn to the simple horned helm that the knight wore, masking his features from view. _If I haven't heard of this man yet, I soon will._

Dismounting from his palfrey was an easier task for Howe than it had been for Loren. Sadly, there was no lump of hidden fat that burst out of his stomach on his approach, a sight that Aedan would have welcomed with laughter. The knight followed him, albeit much slower: his heavy armour clanked and rattled with every slight motion. Rendon pursed his lips as he examined the Cousland family, running his critical gaze over Fergus, Oriana, Oren, Aedan, and Eleanor, finally turning to Bryce with a thin smile on his lips. "Bryce. A pleasure, once again."

"Rendon." The Teryn responded, bowing his head towards the arl. They certainly didn't embrace each other or laugh at each other, or even really smile at each other. They certainly didn't act like good and close friends out in public, amongst their people. Hell, they didn't even act like that towards each other when in the privacy of their respective homes. It had once been different: Rendon had, in the past, always been greeted warmly by Bryce and his wife, and vice versa by the Howes. But now? Things were different. It was behaviour that intrigued Aedan, despite his misgivings about politics. _What goes on in father's head when he looks at this man? What goes on in Rendon's? _

A moment's silence passed. Eventually, Rendon smirked and pulled off one of his silverite gauntlets, exposing his pale, wiry hand to the elements. "Well, it's been a long road. Shall we go inside?"

"Of course." Bryce answered, gesturing over in the direction of the main hall. Rendon didn't waste any time in heading over there, leaving his palfrey to be stabled by the castle's staff. The horned knight inclined his head to Bryce and marched after his retreating master. Aedan watched them leave, a frown still heavyset upon his face, and sighed once the pair was out of earshot. _That wasn't so bad. He didn't even talk to me. _He was about to leave, but Bryce placed a warning hand upon his shoulder. "Pup, I expect you and Fergus to be at the meeting alongside me. You're of the age where I expect you to honour your responsibilities to the kingdom and the Cousland name."

_No, Father. No, I will not be at the meeting, although Fergus is welcome to you old bastards if he wishes it. But I would rather sleep, or drink, or fuck that pretty elven maid with the golden hair. I will not be at the meeting, no matter what. I would rather lose all my toes and have them jammed down my throat than speak with Arl Howe. I would rather lose all my limbs and be bludgeoned to death with them than exchange pleasantries with Bann Loren about his slut wife. I will not be at the meeting. _Aedan was tempted to say all of this, and more.

But when Bryce Cousland asks for something, he usually gets it.

"Of course, Father."

The main hall was warm, far warmer than Highever at this time of year, the fire in the hearth roaring heartily. Aedan grunted as he hurled another log into the hungry flames, and ducked his head as sparks blasted out from the energetic blaze. His latest offering was quickly devoured by the inferno, crackling and breaking under the intense heat of the fire. Wiping a hand across his sweaty brow, Aedan let out a long sigh of relief. _It's toasty, and if it was any hotter, I'd be roasting in the fire like a fat sow. However, it's better than shivering my ass out in the castle proper._

Bryce had set out several pewter cups on one of the long tables, and was currently pouring a healthy stream of West Hill brandy into a cup. The dark flow of the drink made Aedan's mouth water, although he quickly suppressed his urge to take a swig for himself. After the first time his mother had accused him of drinking, Aedan told himself that he would never put another drop of alcohol past his lips. _Just to spite you, dear mother. _Setting the large bottle of brandy down again, Bryce glanced over to Howe as he handed him the cup. "I had thought that your family was coming, Rendon. I told Eleanor to expect Helene as well as Landra."

Arl Howe accepted his cup before answering, a weary look upon his face. "Complications." He brought the pewter to his lips and took a generous sip of the brandy, his throat convulsing in an unpleasant manner. _His apple looks like he swallowed a bird and it wants out. _Rendon set down the cup and wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand. "We were all set to leave, but Helene's parents arranged another visit without giving me any prior knowledge of it. I couldn't refuse them once they were upon my doorstep, so I left Helene and the children with them. Damned Orlesian vultures. I half wish we were at war with the Empire again just to make the border impossible to cross for them."

_If only you had cracked your back, Howe. _Bann Loren grinned over at the arl, a stupid and genuine grin. "Aye, a wife's parents are fearsome to deal with. I remember when I first met Landra's folks. You've never seen a strange couple till you've seen the father and mother of my dear wife. Kept staring at me all through dinner, talking about expectations and conditions of the marriage." Father passed him a cup, and Loren eagerly took a great swig out of the brandy. "It's like they didn't even know who they were speaking with."

"Surprise, surprise. Loren was a disappointment to his bride's family." Rendon smiled wryly, swilling his drink about in the cup as if it was an expensive goblet. "I wonder why that is?"

Loren's face grew red again, and he was about to launch into a violent and vile retort when Bryce Cousland cut into the middle of the fray. "I'm sure," He announced in a loud voice that filled the hall and stopped the bann in his tracks, "that we were all disappointments to the families of our noble wives." The teryn held his cup high, the brandy sloshing heavily within its pewter confines. "Here's to impressing them with our valour in the coming battles!"

It was a toast that Loren and Rendon answered half-heartedly, which did not bode well for the coming battles. Aedan glanced over to Fergus, who was standing at the other side of the fireplace, watching the lords at their game intently. Clearing his throat, Aedan held up a hand towards his brother, a hand curled about the imaginary stem of an imaginary wine goblet. "Cheers?" He asked.

Fergus smiled back, mimicking the motion. "Cheers." The two of them clicked their invisible glasses together and downed their non-existent brandy.

"Speaking of marriage, my boy," Rendon started, turning his steely gaze over to Aedan. "I had been tempted to bring Delilah here to see you again. Her grandparents would have objected, of course, and Helene might have had some choice words for me, but it would have been no trouble. She has recently flowered, as I understand it, and I think she would make a good wife for a noble son of Highever." The Howe smiled, and sipped delicately at his brandy. "What do you think of such an idea?"

And there it was. The reason that Aedan resented Arl Howe with every fibre of his being. The reason that he had tried to get himself beaten silly the previous night, in an attempt to be bed-ridden during the arl's visit. The reason that he feared each and every rider from Amaranthine, in the very terrifying possibility that they might be carrying a letter of engagement.

Granted, he had never liked Howe too much before the idea of marriage arose: Rendon had treated him like an ignorant child during his earlier years, and would often make countless stupid jokes that were dull even for his young tastes. But, during his very first trip to Amaranthine, when he had been presented with the Howe children and saw Delilah for the first time, Aedan quickly figured out what his father and Rendon were planning for him, and hated it. He loathed it, feared it, and despised it. Fergus was lucky, as he had received a beautiful wife from Antiva, skilled in trade and a quick learner at love-making. But Aedan would, inevitably, be forced to marry Rendon Howe's daughter and intermarry Cousland and Howe, a powerful step towards absolving the Coastlands of the bad blood the two families had shared for centuries.

_I am sorry, Rendon Howe; but I hate the idea. I spit on the idea, it is so terrible and ill-conceived. But wait, I am not even sorry. I laugh in your face, you stupid old bastard. You would think that I, Aedan Cousland, would marry your ugly weasel-faced daughter and take her into my bed? You would think that I would demean myself that much to lay with the vermin that you had spawned from your twisted loins? You have another thing coming, you fucking prick. You, and father, will learn not to shape my destiny for me._

"That sounds like an excellent idea, milord." Aedan replied.

Rendon watched him for a moment, watched him coolly from his seat, watched him from across the top of his wine-filled cup. "A pity," he drawled, "that she is not here, then."

The main hall of Castle Cousland was nothing more than a large and empty room, with a high ceiling and wide walls, capable of being adapted to suit any purpose. It could serve as a throne room, banquet hall, barracks, or a damned latrine if the masters of the castle deemed it necessary. Knowing that he was to entertain noble guests for the night, Bryce had summoned for a long table of polished oak to sit in the very center of the hall, the ends of the table reaching either side of the room. The walls were devoid of artwork or ornamentation, though that was not always so. In the past, Aedan remembered vivid tapestries and colourful portraits adorning the walls, brought out for feasts or his mother's salons. The only part of the main hall that endured throughout the centuries, static and utterly resistant to change, was the enormous hearth that covered the northern wall.

The three lords were seated at the center of the long table; that is, Bryce stood beside the table facing his guests while Loren busily pushed his large frame against the wood, Rendon completing the trio by sitting with one leg underneath the table and the other on the opposite side of the seat. _A teryn, an arl, and a bann walk into a tavern. _Guards were posted outside the main hall, Aedan knew, on the far side of the wooden doors that marked the western, eastern, and southern walls. Aedan and Fergus both attended the actual meeting, as well as the mabari hound Dog. Well, Aedan and Fergus attended it, while Dog was lazily sprawled out in front of the hearth, panting heavily as the heat from the fire washed over him.

Bann Loren didn't bring anyone from his party into the main hall, but Rendon had taken the liberty of stationing his own man within: the horned knight from earlier. The helmet had finally been removed by the knight and was tucked into the crook of his arm, revealing a dark and tanned face, a shaggy mane of ginger hair framing his heavyset features. Ser Temmerly Packton was his name, a local from Amaranthine who won his knighthood through his prowess at arms. He was a big man, with a beefy neck and broad shoulders, and was destined to earn a nickname at some point during his service to Rendon Howe. _All the good knights get a nickname at one point or another. I wonder what his will be. _Rendon had assured Bryce that Temmerly's presence was necessary: "I am grooming the boy for command," he had said, "and he should get some knowledge of a general's duties on and off the field." Temmerly had curtly nodded at that in affirmation. It was all he did, nod.

Once Bryce Cousland was finished with his brandy, he set the cup down and took a seat at the table opposite Howe and Loren. "And now, to business." Loren nodded simply and straightened his slouch into a proper straight back, while the arl continued to sit in the same relaxed fashion. Bryce did not seem too pleased by this, and attacked Howe first. "Rendon, along with your family, you seem to have forgotten the rest of your soldiers. Where are they? I will not keep the king waiting for our arrival."

Aedan was puzzled by this. _Rest of his soldiers? That host doesn't even consist of the majority of his forces? But all the knights, and the guards, and the foot soldiers! _But Rendon only waved his hand idly, shaking his head. "Yet more complications, your Grace. Most of my strength is still being withheld by Bann Esmerelle. She's intent on flushing out some bandits that were attacking the arling, and she won't rest until they are dealt with." Aedan knew the name of Esmerelle: she controlled the actual city of Amaranthine, but still bent the knee before Arl Howe. Rendon sighed in resignation. "I hate to keep his Majesty waiting as well, Bryce. But until my men are finished combing through Amaranthine for the bandits, I cannot send them south."

Father put a hand to his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: find another bann. Esmerelle is only worried about her own pocket, for surely it suffers with these bandit attacks." Rendon did nothing to deny these accusations, and only shrugged. But Bryce did not give up the issue that easily. "Why not pick Lord Eddelbrek instead? He's a good man, cares about the people. If he was bann, we wouldn't be in this problem."

Howe found a tight smile upon his face, and sweetly shrugged again. "I know Esmerelle, my old friend. I don't know Eddelbrek. I'd rather have someone that I know and trust running the bannorn than someone I don't. Rather good principle, wouldn't you say?"

Loren snorted. "You trust her to delay us when it comes time for battle, Rendon?"

Raising an eyebrow, Rendon smirked over at the bann. "I would hardly speak in your place, Loren. After all, I've still brought more soldiers at a quarter's strength than you have at full. Or have your men gotten lost in Little Hill, and cannot find the road?" Grumbling, Loren returned to his drink in moderate silence.

Bryce just sighed throughout all of this. "So your men are indefinitely delayed, is that right?" Rendon nodded. "Bann Franderel has told me much the same: says the forces of West Hill are still marshalling, and won't be ready for another week at least. At this rate, we'll be ready for battle when the darkspawn are defeated." Teryn Cousland reached over for the bottle of brandy, and started to pour himself another cup. "I won't abandon Cailan in the south. We'll begin a march with what forces we have remaining to us and send word for the banns to do the same."

"With all due respect, your Grace," Howe interrupted, "that is a terrible idea." Bryce fixed his cold gaze upon his friend, but Rendon didn't seem affected by it. Indeed, it seemed to inspire amusement in him. "My knights have been marching from Amaranthine in full plate and they are tired. Give them a few days before you send them off to battle. Hopefully, by the time that they are ready, the rest of my forces will have been mobilized for battle."

"Are your men that tired that they cannot make for the south?"  
>"Unfortunately so, your Grace."<p>

Loren put a hand up to his temples and rubbed them wearily. "I suppose the same can be said for my household, Bryce. If you want me to stir them into action, I'll do it without a doubt, but they do need rest." By Aedan's last count, Bann Loren's soldiers didn't even make a fifth of the lord's combined strength. It seemed, to him anyway, that the bann was here for show, but little else. It was a gift, a boon, to appease him and make him believe that he was necessary. But Aedan doubted that Bann Loren was tricked that easily. Everybody in the room knew that the real power lay on the oak table, resting impatiently between the Teryn of Highever and the Arl of Amaranthine.

The Teryn of Highever shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief. "I will not abandon Cailan in the south." He repeated.

Loren shrugged his shoulders, and took a healthy sip of the brandy. "Maybe," the bann posited into his cup, "the king will be alright even if Highever doesn't march for the south. He's got half of Ferelden already under his banner; does he really need the northern half right now? I suggest that we wait to see the progress of the campaign before sending our soldiers into it."

From the angry look that crossed Bryce's eyes, Aedan could already tell what his father thought of that particular idea. But, surprisingly, it was Rendon that first spoke out against it. "Need I remind you that the king is just sixteen? I would trust Maric to hold out in the south, but not Cailan. You're right, Bryce," He said, a phrase that Aedan couldn't believe would come out of Rendon's mouth, "the boy needs some help from the north. Your troops have been ready for some time now, am I correct?" Bryce waited a moment, and then slowly nodded. "I'd advise sending the men from Highever south as a vanguard while we wait here to build up the rest of the army."

Bryce's brow furrowed as he considered the suggestion, and he seemed to visibly retreat within his own mind. He stepped away from the table, took a few tentative sips of the brandy, and was quiet. Long moments of anticipation passed, and Aedan felt his own patience ebb as he watched his father contemplate the issue. _Send the soldiers south! Don't send the soldiers south! Just do something!_ Finally, Bryce nodded simply. "Very well, we'll do that. My men are ready to march on the morrow." He took a deep breath of air before asking, "Fergus?"

Fergus, who had shown waning interest in the meeting as it grew longer and longer, snapped to attention when his name was called. Aedan noticed sickeningly that his back was straight to the point of snapping, his feet placed perfectly together, one arm barely resisting the urge to salute. _What a perfect little solider you make, brother. _"Yes, father?"

Bryce looked pained; as if he did not want to say whatever he was about to say, but Aedan knew better. _You've been waiting for twenty five years to say this. You've been waiting for Fergus to grow up, get a wife, and get you an heir before this day finally came. You've been waiting ever since you started training us in combat, since you started making us attend political events, since you started grooming us to be perfect little princes worthy of your little kingdom. Why pretend anything else? _"You will take the van south along the Imperial Highway to meet up with the king's forces. You will fight at his side against the darkspawn until such a time as we are ready to join you."

_If Father was hiding his true emotions behind a mask of pain, then Fergus is sewing his true emotions on his chest despite the pain. _For, indeed, Fergus Cousland looked positively overjoyed at this announcement. His smile stretched from one corner of the room to the other, outmatching the fire in its intensity and size. "Thank you, father. I won't let you down."

Bryce nodded. "Good. I have faith in you, my son." And then another mask of pain drifted over Bryce's features, and he turned to face Aedan. Aedan recognized that look; he recognized it all too well. _"Aedan, it's time we discussed your activities, here in the castle." "Aedan, it's time we discussed Dog's training." "Aedan, it's time for you to be dragged outside and flogged for not living up to my expectations." _"Aedan, it's time for you to take responsibility in Highever. While we are away, I expect you to rule in my stead."

"No." The answer came swiftly to his lips, too swiftly for him to restrain it.

He would have given anything for Fergus to start laughing again, but his brother was tight-lipped and embarrassed, and so said nothing. He would have given anything for Loren to start snickering away, but the bann only had a look of pity upon his face while he drank and drank and drank. He would have given anything for Howe to start taunting him and insulting him, but Rendon only had a thin smile upon his brandy flecked lips as he watched Aedan squirm. He would have given anything for Dog to go wild and start killing everything in the room, but the stupid fucking hound was lazily soaking in the heat of the fire, too busy to do anything of real importance.

This left Aedan alone with Bryce Cousland.

Bryce didn't answer, didn't say a word. He just stared at him, mouth pursed, cold eyes gazing, silent as the grave. Aedan shifted uncomfortably under his father's sudden and complete attention, and glanced towards the door. But there was no relief coming to assist him, no help. He just had to shut his eyes and think of anything else: of West Hill brandy, of brawling in the street, of fucking elven maids with golden hair. But none of that came to mind: instead, only Bryce and Eleanor Cousland appeared, staring at him. Judging him.

"Pup," Bryce finally responded, "I will not repeat myself. You will rule Highever while I am away, and that is final. There is to be no argument about this matter."

"Yes, there is." Aedan found himself saying. "This is a task for a steward, not me. I don't know the first thing about ruling!" Bryce was not easily convinced, and would never sway that easily. _"Aedan, I will never take incompetence for an answer. Every man, when called to the occasion, will rise to victory or fail. There is no telling of victory or failure before the battle is even begun. I am training you to be prepared, but no amount of training will prepare you for the hard choices that lay ahead. All I ask is that, when called to the occasion, you do not give up before you rise, or fail." _"Please, father, place Oswell in charge. He's more qualified than me!"

The prospect of the aging steward ruling Highever did not seem to inspire Bryce with much confidence. He slowly shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. "It's true that Oswell has served me for many years, and done a fine job of it. But his time is done: half the time that he spends in the castle, he spends it getting lost or falling ill. He's forgotten my name countless times already, and he's convinced that you are his long-lost son." And Aedan knew all of this to be true, and more: Oswell, the age-old steward of Castle Cousland, was not getting any younger.

"Pup, all I ask is that you maintain the peace and keep Highever safe. If you need me to give you advice, I will do so, but I need you to take responsibility for your people." Bryce leaned forward, and placed a hand upon Aedan's shoulder. He did not grip the skin tightly, did not clench his fingers together, did nothing more than rest his palm against the shoulder. But to Aedan, it felt like the heaviest burden in the world. "Can you do this? For me and for your family?"

And Bryce looked to him. His father did not stare, instilling shame into his son. He looked to him instead, looked out to Aedan to find the answer. And Fergus looked to him, biting his lip and offering comforting smiles. And Loren looked to him, eyebrows furrowed, taking the scene in piece by piece. And Rendon looked to him, expectant smile still on his face, drinking casually from his cup of brandy.

And Dog looked to him, and wagged his tongue stupidly.

Aedan sighed. "I will, father. I'll try not to disappoint you."

_Maker, protect me._


End file.
